Rabbit, rabbit! All night it rained into November, dousing the jack-o'-lanterns; the streets were full of wet yellow leaves in the morning. Last night we had a small trick-or-treater dressed as a firefighter come up and peer dubiously into the top of one of our pumpkins where he had clearly expected a flickering LED, not a real flame. I was sorry that the tall orange dinosaur peeled off from the rest of his middle-school-aged trio before reaching our house because one of the other two was a William Gillette Sherlock Holmes right down to the deerstalker and the briar pipe and I had no chance to greet them as Arthur Conan Doyle's Lost World. ![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
spatch and I sat on the front steps with the enameled black-and-orange candy bowl that used to be the fruit bowl in my grandparents' house and did not realize until after several uncertain rounds of trick-or-treaters that we were dramatically backlit by the porch light and me wearing my mother's witch hat probably did not help the effect. The best costume of the night may have belonged to the couple who were walking their dog dressed as a lobster in the best traditions of Gérard de Nerval. This afternoon I walked around the reservoir in blowing autumnal rusts and greens and counted fifteen swans on the water, some of them still juvenile soot-grey. There was a rainbow over Arlington Heights and some of those luminous curds of sunset cloud in an apple-teal sky as I drove back from dropping Rob at the bus. A friend who is not on DW has reminded me that when I couldn't think of a fictional character for my birthday, John Adams at the time of 1776 is rather indelibly forty-one.
spatch and I sat on the front steps with the enameled black-and-orange candy bowl that used to be the fruit bowl in my grandparents' house and did not realize until after several uncertain rounds of trick-or-treaters that we were dramatically backlit by the porch light and me wearing my mother's witch hat probably did not help the effect. The best costume of the night may have belonged to the couple who were walking their dog dressed as a lobster in the best traditions of Gérard de Nerval. This afternoon I walked around the reservoir in blowing autumnal rusts and greens and counted fifteen swans on the water, some of them still juvenile soot-grey. There was a rainbow over Arlington Heights and some of those luminous curds of sunset cloud in an apple-teal sky as I drove back from dropping Rob at the bus. A friend who is not on DW has reminded me that when I couldn't think of a fictional character for my birthday, John Adams at the time of 1776 is rather indelibly forty-one.
