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Outside the leaves on the trees constricted slightly; they were the deep done green of the beginning of autumn. it was a sunday in september. there would only be four. the clouds were high and the swallows would be here for another month or so before they left for the south before they returned again next summer.

-Ali Smith

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Outside The Leaves On The Trees Constricted

Ali Smith

Outside the leaves on the trees constricted slightly; they were the deep done green of the beginning of autumn. it was a sunday in september. there would only be four. the clouds were high and the swallows would be here for another month or so before they left for the south before they returned again next summer.

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    <p style="font-size: 1.2rem; font-style: italic; margin-bottom: 10px;">"outside the leaves on the trees constricted slightly; they were the deep done green of the beginning of autumn. it was a sunday in september. there would only be four. the clouds were high and the swallows would be here for another month or so before they left for the south before they returned again next summer."</p>
    <footer style="font-size: 1rem; font-weight: bold;">— Ali Smith</footer>
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Topic

Summer Autumn Sunday

More From Ali Smith

Slowly, very slowly, like two unhurried compass needles, the feet turned towards the right; north, north-east, east, south-east, south, south-south-west; then paused, and after a few seconds, turned as unhurriedly back towards the left. south-south-west, south, south-east, east.

What have they done to me? what have they done to me? what have they done to me? what have they done to me? what have they done to me? what have they done to me? what have they done to me? what have they done to me? what have they done to me? what have they done to me? what have they done to me? what have they done to me? what have they done to me? what have they done to me? what have they done to me? what have they done to me? what have they done to me?

September has come, it is hers whose vitality leaps in the autumn, whose nature prefers trees without leaves and a fire in the fireplace. so i give her this month and the next though the whole of my year should be hers who has rendered already so many of its days intolerable or perplexed but so many more so happy. who has left a scent on my life, and left my walls dancing over and over with her shadow whose hair is twined in all my waterfalls and all of london littered with remembered kisses.

My granda always told me that fall's the time to root up something you don't want coming back to trouble you.' kote mimicked the quaver of an old man's voice. 'things are too full of life in the spring months. in the summer, they're too strong and won't let go. autumn...' he looked around at the changing leaves on the trees. 'autumn's the time. in autumn everything is tired and ready to die.

There is a beautiful spirit breathing now its mellowed richness on the clustered trees, and, from a beaker full of richest dyes, pouring new glory on the autumn woods, and dipping in warm light the pillared clouds. morn on the mountain, like a summer bird, lifts up her purple wing, and in the vales the gentle wind, a sweet and passionate wooer, kisses the blushing leaf, and stirs up life within the solemn woods of ash deep-crimsoned, and silver beech, and maple yellow-leaved, where autumn, like a faint old man, sits down by the wayside a-weary.

Autumn truly is what summer pretends to be: the best of all seasons. it is as glorious as summer is tedious; as subtle as summer is obvious; as refreshing as summer is wearying. autumn seems like paradise.

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Summertime and the living is easy fish are jumpin' and the cotton is high oh, your daddy's rich and your mama's good lookin' so hush little baby now don't you cry one of these mornin's you're gonna rise up singin' then you'll spread your wings and take to the sky but til that mornin' ain't nothin' can harm you with your daddy and your mammy standin' by.

But strictly held by none, is loosely bound by countless silken ties of love and thought to everything on earth the compass round, and only by one's going slightly taut in the capriciousness of summer air is of the slightest bondage made aware.

Wine talks; ask anyone. the oracle at the street corner; the uninvited guest at the wedding feast; the holy fool. it ventriloquizes. it has a million voices. it unleashes the tongue, teasing out secrets you never meant to tell, secrets you never even knew. it shouts, rants, whispers. it speaks of great plans, tragic loves, and terrible betrayals. it screams with laughter. it chuckles softly to itself. it weeps in front of its own reflection. it revives summers long past and memories best forgotten. every bottle a whiff of other times, other places, everyone...a humble miracle

Along with you, i have witnessed the unfortunate rise in gasoline prices that has accompanied the summer driving season and the more recent spike in prices due to hurricane katrina.

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