update from sparkleup

writing/post-self/april/001.md

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+# April — 2406
+
+A riot of colors.
+
+Brown leaves underfoot — or perhaps underpaw — or perhaps purple, orange, red, yellow all butted up against the coarse bark at the bases of trees. Trunks stood sturdy with browns or tans or, with their persistent loveliness, the dusty whites of aspen and birch. Leaves clung still to the branches, for it was early yet in autumn, and there fluttered a riot of greens dark and pale, the yellow-gold of aspen flickering among them. And the sky! There was, of course, the pale blue of lakes on a map, and clouds, white tinged with the white-gold of the sun, or perhaps more inventive colors, out to the east, salmon and yellow and orange; and there, to the west, the subtlest tinge of green, a nod to the whimsy of such a well manicured forest.
+
+A riot of scents.
+
+There, the dusty-sweet scent of the oldest fallen leaves breaking down into humus. There, the crispness that sat just shy of fruity that came with the morning. There, the honey-lemon sweetness of arborvitae and hyssop. It was all the scent of fall. Enticing and hungry-making.
+
+A riot of sounds.
+
+The joyous cacophony of birdsong — twittering, warbling, singing songs so complicated they dazzled the ear. Some were warnings, perhaps, and others calls out to mates or family. Some may well have been songs sung for the simple joy of it all. A joyous cacophony that would of a sudden come to a stop. Were they all listening, ears to the sky or down to the ground? Was there some hidden voice calling out to them? Or was it a sudden watchfulness, a preparation for flight?