I got no further. I spent the rest of the afternoon at Oyster Bay.
|I always park facing this tree. It's glorious at all seasons.|
The internet is wonderful, and the photos it carries can transport you anywhere, but it can't do this: the first thing I noticed, passing the gate to the wild field, was the scents. Imagine a perfume made up of golden leaves, dying brown leaves, grass, the aroma of wet earth, the spicy tang of evergreens, the sweetness of crabapples half eaten by the birds and hornets, a bit more dry grass, almost hay. Add in a whiff of salt water, and the sombre note of black eelgrass out in the lagoon. Got it?
|As close as a photo can get to a scent. Random shot, beside my path.|
|The old apple tree. The apples are gone now. The birds have had their fill.|
|Down in the grass and weeds, two toasted-bun mushrooms.|
|Aphid on a fallen maple leaf.|
|Zooming in on that aphid, running from the camera now.|
|Even the rocks are decorated for fall. Yellow and white crust lichens, bird guano lovers. These rocks are sometimes covered at high tide.|
|Yellow "sunny face" lichen on another rock.|
So I still have to hurry down to Salmon Point to find those mushrooms before the rain sets in again.