The air is cool enough to be crisp, and the sky is a slightly creamy blue, against the bright orange and salmon and yellow leaves. It's just barely windy enough in the tops of the trees that there is a constant faint whisper, and leaves come drifting down slowly on all sides. Birds call occasionally in the trees, red-bellied woodpeckers shuffle down trunks warily and attack the suet, their heads glowing like stop lights. It is the sort of day that makes me want to stand on the deck, possibly wearing something more hippie-ish than usual, and drink peppermint tea, and write poetry about autumn and death and glory.
Bein' me, I'll just put the windows open and play WoW. I have the tea though.
Had you told me that yesterday, which began with two varieties of crowned kinglets, would end with an older Fillipino Elvis impersonator in a Spiderman themed-Elvis suit, followed by a lengthy and fairly demented Mexican wrestling-meets-performance-art experience, which included such highlights as a mad scientist eviscerate the candy guts of a masked wrestler dressed as a pinata, I would probably not have believed you. And I would have been wrong.