Driving up Ironwood as the late afternoon sun hits the autumn trees, lining the small avenue like Corinthian columns, transforming it into a regal boulevard, living columns hung with jewel-tone leaves, their gilt dandruff flaking from their branches with comic rapidity, carpeting the earth in a new crunchy, golden crust, I think to myself: this place is beautiful.
A man is mowing his lawn. There is a beautiful stone house, elegant and elderly. The streets here are well-paved. The lawns bristle a healthy brown post-summer-ripe hue, and closely hedge the cheerful, bleached brightness of the sidewalk.
The intersection of Bader and Ironwood is quintessential suburbia, and I love it. Especially now, when I can admire old deciduouses with vast canopies of common yellow, lit up by the bright sun like giant marigolds. Things can grow and breathe here between the tightly-angled sidewalks, which constrict some creative expression, while allowing a natural expansion.
Driving up (we can drive up and down Main Street now) the main drag, the Toyota slowly purrs her way through the twilight sun shining around the silhouettes of downtown's diminutive skyline. She growls a little as she trolls through the roundabouts. The car rolls around the curve of the road and the curve of the roundabout with the sleek elegance of a golf ball driven to a hole in one.
As we drive over the Michigan street bridge, its lamps flickering like drowning stars in the swollen turbulence of the autumn river, I think again: how beautiful this is. The quiet yawning of night and the peaceful murmur of traffic blend together in the quiet that emanates from streetlights.
Tonight there are no stars, just permacloud. But the air is fresh and biting, and tastes like honeycrisp and home. Like things dying, and strange new weather on the horizon.