Every morning, a new mixture of colours, a harmony that painters can envy. Autumn continues its timeless and cyclical work. Every morning, a reminder that the wheel turns, never quite in the same place since time, in our heads, piles up like dead leaves, brown and green, set with yellow and wind.
Almost a year ago, I was walking in the Saint-Sulpice woodland. I was on vacation. Autumn had officially begun, although this year, it is still in its infancy. As often happens when things are repeated, the observation is pretty much the same. However, the eye always finds something to explore. I'm back on vacation after a year of hardly going outside. I'm doubly inoculated, the virus is a little less scary, and the seasons don't give a damn.
The leaves do not seem to be ready to fade. However, by the end of September, they should already have a sense of the end. There are some of these unblemished autumns and this one may be one of them. The antlers will turn brown and will be bald by one or two gusts of wind. The next day, it will snow and we will not yet have our boots at our feet.
I must continue on the theme of light. After work last week, it was still too hot for autumn. People willingly walked barefoot in the park, young people, bare-chested and beautiful, juggling. I was too hot with my vest and windbreaker, as if from a season too far ahead of its time.
The leaves are starting to fall here. We never tire of announcing, every year, the beginning of autumn. At this stage, the decline may seem philosophical. The air seems to be at the peak of its breath, already imbued with soft, dense juices, like the one in these rooms where the dying fall asleep.
Of course, autumn inspires the poet. It is a sweet season, heralding the bitterness of winter, but, with good weather helping, we are not yet concerned about it. The weather is fine, death is there to diffuse perfumes of appeasement, the air is warm, the light compresses the shadows, skilfully mixing the colors. Everything is in its place, in the order of things. You feel almost eternal.
There seemed to be only beauty on the ground this morning. Oh, there was the morning light, the promise that the day would be beautiful. There was also the refreshing air, purer than usual—autumn and winter make us believe that the cold will destroy the toxic fumes and waste produced by the human race—there was assuredly this anonymity of the passers-by who let me wander quietly.