Autumn comes quickly here. Quietude seeps from the boulders, the steep slopes, the darkling green brown lake ponds. Down in Devil's Postpile, the raucous wind is foiled, and the faces of Starkweather and Sotcher Lakes are only glazed by wide rippling breezes. On the shore, midday is warming, and summer's date seems lengthened by a few more days of incomparably bright Sierra sunshine.
The rainbow seem confused when we fish for them today. They only nibble and spit the Power Bait they love in spring and summer. Only a few tiny ones are fooled. We give them back so easily. Their speckled sparkling beauty remains.
Aspen are finished, mostly. A lone long dancing yellow golden fairy bush-tree pops up along the road to greet our solitary auto on the precipitous down-curving road. Soon the thin powder of snow on the crests and the north slopes will make the Postpile road as never was.
The downhill stroll from Minaret Vista to Starkweather is ochre, pumice-gray, and so silent today. The checkerspots no longer flutter, and the stream's monkshood and all the other summer flora have laid down their faces to the dust.
Even already attenuated moments lengthen as I gaze at lake face and sky; in some way they trick one to think they shall be held in memory's eternal lines. And this is enough.
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