The Indian summer is deceptive. In just a few days, leaf-peeping time has stolen suddenly and without warning upon us.
Trees are part red-gold, part green, hedging their bets.
A crimson creeper creeps opportunistically up a telegraph pole on the Five Mile Road.
And a green-and-scarlet bush cheers up the sad, derelict old farmhouse on the corner.
Red splashes on the skyline.
A forest into abstract art.
As the red-and-gold wins at last.
And in the early morning, an autumn garden swathed in mist and sweet silence, save only for the sound of dew drops dripping from the leaves.
An autumn garden should be untidy, like an eccentric old lady with hair escaping from her bun.
(And I'm not just saying that because I'm lazy.. am I?)