The final days of autumn have a tough act to follow.

After the fireworks of summer and fall foliage, these days leading up to winter are far more subdued.

Even among the browns and grays of early December, flashes of color can still be found.

The flash that stops me every time is a purple one: the tiny magenta berries growing in a nearby front yard. (The bush is appropriately named Beautyberry.)

The orange of pumpkins past still survives, perched on doorsteps, or lolling in the (not so green) grass.

Wild grasses bring out their beige at fall's end. Those soft tufts are so beautiful, especially backlit by the sun.

Green, thankfully, is willing to stick around, and I'm not just talking about pine trees. The other day I was surprised by moss, growing at the bottom of a telephone pole.

Winter is almost upon us, and the colors are fading, but the good news is that they never leave us completely. In the gray times, you just have to work a little harder to see them.

Ah, the universe does love her metaphors.

Seen in passing: a small host of sparrows, gathering beneath the bumper of a car parked at a nearby Wawa. 

They seemed so tiny, with the tail end of the car looming over their feathered heads. Seemingly oblivious, they hopped and pecked, discovering crumbs left behind by a human. I hoped the driver wouldn't come back before they finished their feast.

Winter's coming, the ground is freezing and worms are hard to come by.

I guess a convenience store isn't just for people.

A memory of last winter.

It's back.

I'm talking about snow season, which apparently doesn't need to wait for winter. For those of us who live near Philadelphia, our first flakes arrived on Thanksgiving morning.

I was out in the yard with our dog when I heard the slight hiss and crackle of frozen rain. I saw a dot of snow in mid-air, but thought, no, that can't be. It's too soon.

I was wrong there. The view from our kitchen window not long after confirmed it: 'Twas snowing -- and hard. As my husband and I looked out into the snow globe, the phone rang. It was my mom, calling from the other side of town, making sure I didn't miss it. (Thanks, Mom.)

We sat at the table and watched the flutters and swirls. My husband especially liked the big, fat flakes, which he said looked like feathers. (I have to give him credit for good imagery.)

Perhaps it's genetic, but I felt compelled to make sure both of our own kids  didn't miss it. In 21st century style, I texted them, and, like good college students everywhere, they were both still asleep. Hey, I tried.

I still remember listening for the school closings on the radio. Years ago they used to read all the names on KYW, though at some point they switched to the number system. (Come on 301, come on 301!)

My mom once put a note on the bathroom door that read something like: Snow day: Go back to bed, you lucky ducks.

Maybe that's why the sight of snow still fills me with happiness. It reminds me of childhood: sledding, making snow angels, climbing mountains left by the plows in the park around the corner, skating on the frozen creek -- and sleeping in on those unexpected days off from school.

Snow can also be a pain: seemingly endless shoveling and scraping; dicey driving; cold, wet mittens and boots; almost frost-bitten fingers.

I don't think about those things when I see those first flakes. I see only pure, clear beauty, and marvel at the wonder of the world. 

'Tis the season.

The small, blazing orange hat hugged the head of the little boy walking just ahead of me. He was about half the height of the man beside him -- not yet a yardstick tall.

The boy held to his chest a large rectangle of construction paper. I saw a flash of colorful handprints and thought: nursery school project.

As we all turned the corner and headed toward the grocery store, I said to the boy, "Did you make that?"

He looked up and showed me his creation: a happy-looking turkey with handprint tail feathers and long legs dangling off the page.

"He's taking his turkey for a walk," the dad said with a smile.

Happy Thanksgiving!

One recent, rather full, day, I squeezed in a trip to the gym. The parking lot was crammed with cars, but I found a spot at the far edge … the better to squeeze in a few extra steps.

  As I started to speed toward the door, my list of later to-dos in my head, I caught sight of two Canada geese, who were in absolutely no hurry at all. Their slow, leisurely waddle through the lot literally brought me to a halt. 

I stood and watched -- and listened. To my left, cars and trucks whooshed through the adjacent industrial park; to my right, turnpike traffic droned and rumbled just beyond the gym. In between this pair of geese meandered down the drive, making their way to the grass beyond the curb with a slow-motion grace.

Their feathers? Quite unruffled.

Honk if you love serendipity.

Don’t let the name fool you. Forbidden Drive* is a most welcoming place.
    My husband and I joined two friends for a bike trip down the drive on Saturday morning, ending at the Manayunk Diner. (Banana walnut pancakes: the perfect fuel for the return trip.)
    I didn’t bring my camera, but my memory holds the images that will stay:
    * Reaching the top of a ridge, and looking way down at the Wissahickon Creek. Morning mist snaked above the surface, airy white against deep green.
    * Passing the Valley Green Inn, seeing small, round, ghostly tables cloaked in white. (I must still have Halloween on the brain.) On our way back, we passed a wedding party there, which made those ghosts more formal than haunting.
    * Watching a runner approach in the distance. Back-lit by the sun, her ponytail swished and flashed with each stride.
    Forbidden Drive was full of people: walking, running, walking dogs, riding bikes (and one horse). As with my visit to Pennypack Park, I was struck by how easy it was to forget we were still in the city.
    Penn’s Woods are alive and well in Philadelphia.
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* Factoid: Forbidden Drive used to be known as Upper Wissahickon Drive. The name change came in the 1920s, when wise powers-that-be banned cars from the road.   

Crawling out of bed before sunrise to take our dog out is not part of my usual routine, but sometimes, it’s necessary.
    That necessity called the other morning, and I stood on our front yard, mostly asleep, in the quiet dark.
    While Louie rustled through leaves, I looked up, and saw no clouds, all silver lining.
    The stars were brilliant, pinprick diamonds dotting the sky. A white sliver of moon hung like a crooked smile.
    Thanks, Lou. I wouldn’t have seen that if it weren’t for you.