This is, I think, Reggie’s favorite time of year: November, the season of leaves. These days, I think I could let Reggie outside, off-leash, and instead of wandering, he’d simply stand in the nearest leaf-pile and sniff, savoring the aroma of dead, drying leaves like a cow in high clover, her muzzle sunk in lusciousness.
I have my own fondness for fallen leaves. October winds and rain shook the colors from overhead and left them lying like unrolled carpet on the ground below, a wall-to-wall blanket of brilliance. October is for leaf-peepers who look overhead, and November is for dog-walkers who skulk close to the ground. Now that the tops of trees are tonsured by brisk breezes, the fall foliage is inverted, with the earth glowing gold and red while tree branches reach like roots to the sky.