When all is dreary, movement...

The sun was masked by clouds, an athletic wind brought hints of changing weather and we were hard pressed to leave a toasty fire behind to venture out. It was Domino's first fire and he quickly figured out that a fire is a nice thing to sleep in front of. Even so, no second invitation was needed to get dogs to join me for a walk.

Lack of light and a forest in motion made photos "iffy" and I was reluctant to resort to flash having left reflector behind.

The forest delivered up mysterious creaks as the wind bent scantily clad branches together.

It's a sound I associate with fall in the forest when one must keep alert for falling branches.

The forest reminds me a bit of a Seurat painting with lines echoing movement.

The sun's bright paintbrush silent today leaving only the most embedded colors to shine.

By default, I sort of follow the curves it left behind like a faint trail through the forest.

Curves become spirals.

The cold wind could not keep Domino from a brisk plunge in the water, emerging in true Domino form, the ever resilient pit gator.

The one fragile bed of ferns which have taken hold are now faded.

The lake is no longer shielded by leaves.

And leaves cover a substantial amount of the surface.

The forest was eerily quiet today aside from the creaking of the trees. No more fly committees line the trail and I wondered if they have perished for the year or holed up in some hidey hole against the coming winter.

The lake is no longer dimpled by the legions of water striders.

Without the sun, everything seemed like it was settling in to sleep and if there were watchful eyes in the forest, they watched unseen.

The dogs range farther ahead, invigorated by the cooler temperatures. Ripley and Domino hunting together through the piles of leaves in search of who knows what, while Charm leaps at this tree and that, scanning the branches for squirrels.

The buds of yesterday have opened today in a rush to finish their business.

The rocks have lost their warmth so we do not linger long to enjoy the view.

Color in the distance disappears when viewed at close range, where things have become more monotone.

Hoards of scavengers have cracked every acorn and chestnut and no doubt hauled away their harvest so that nothing remains.

The forest carries that tone which becomes slightly unwelcoming as the light fades.

And footing is treacherous as we climb, leaves slipping and sliding underneath our feet.

Only the tiniest things seem to hold any color not in fall's palette.

The forest is so still, I can hear the jingle of dog tags and locate dogs quickly.

In spite of mad dashes on and off the trail, they all stay close as if the change in the forest is apparent to them as well.

And so home we were again where dogs lay dreaming in front of the fire.