A Book of the Seasons: September 25.

September 25.

Flitting and screaming 

from pine to pine displaying 

gaudy blue pinions. 

September 25, 1851

I watch the milkweed

rising higher and higher

till lost in the sky. 

Hawks too looking white 

against the green pines like the 

seeds of the milkweed. 

 September 25, 1851

I am detained by
the bright red blackberry leaves
strewn along the sod.

At a distance a
fox or an otter withdraws
from the riverside.

A splendid sunset,
all its colors prolonged in
rippled reflection.
September 25, 1854

Holding a white pine 

needle, turning it in a

favorable light, 

I see each of its
edges notched or serrated
with minute bristles.
September 25, 1859

Sober brown colors --

ferns in harmony with the 

twilight of the swamp. 

September 25, 1859

Hawks, too, I perceive, sailing about in the clear air, looking white against the green pines, like the seeds of the milkweed. T September 25, 1851

I am detained by the very bright red blackberry leaves strewn along the sod, the vine being inconspicuous. September 25, 1854

Holding a white pine needle in my hand, and turning it in a favorable light, as I sit upon this cliff, I perceive that each of its three edges is notched or serrated with minute forward-pointing bristles. September 25, 1859




At a distance a fox or an otter withdraws from the riverside. September 25, 1854


The cinnamon ferns are all a decaying brown there. The sober brown colors of those ferns are in harmony with the twilight of the swamp. September 25, 1859





A rose again, apparently lucida (?). This is always unexpected. September 25, 1852



You notice now the dark-blue dome of the soapwort gentian in cool and shady places under the bank. September 25, 1857


The red maple has fairly begun to blush in some places by the river. September 25, 1857


A single tree becomes the crowning beauty of some meadowy vale and attracts the attention of the traveller from afar. The whole tree, thus ripening in advance of its fellows, attains a singular preéminence. September 25, 1857



As I came round the island, I took notice of that little ash tree . . . cut or broken off about two feet from the ground, and seven small branches have shot up from its circumference, all together forming a perfectly regular oval head. September 25, 1857

That the tree thus has its idea to be lived up to, and, as it were, fills an invisible mould in the air. September 25, 1857

In an old grist-mill the festoons of cobwebs revealed by the white dust on them are an ornament. September 25, 1857

Looking over the shoulder of the miller, I drew his attention to a mouse.  September 25, 1857

Brought home my first boat-load of wood. September 25, 1857

There is a splendid sunset while I am on the water,. . . All the colors are prolonged in the rippled reflection to five or six times their proper length. The effect is particularly remarkable in the case of the reds, which are long bands of red perpendicular in the water. September 25, 1854

Bats come out fifteen minutes after sunset, and then I hear some clear song sparrow strains, as from a fence-post amid snows in early spring. September 25, 1854

*****

 

A Book of the Seasons, by Henry Thoreau
"A book, each page written in its own season,
out-of-doors, in its own locality."

~edited, assembled and rewritten by zphx © 2009-2019