Caramel Apples and Saffron Leaves

As the beauty of fall starts to wane (as it does, inevitably, especially when it rains as endlessly as it has for the past 24 hours), we must snatch moments of charm and enchantment when we can.

Thursday was dull and gray. I had a meeting across town in a conference room of a large private marina located on the river. I arrived late, and was forced to squeeze my car in a tight spot along the bank of a narrow inlet. Descending from my minivan, I was greeted by a chorus of quacks from a colony of ducks, some mallards, others black, and two the color of fresh butter.

I stood there for a bit, mesmerized. It is not unusual to find ducks in my neighborhood, or in other places, nor is it odd to find Canada Geese (in fact they live here year long). Sometimes swans make their home in the reeds along the riverbank at the end of our street. But I never tire of seeing them, and hearing them.

Inside the meeting, there were caramel apples, heavy with pecans, and coffee to revive us from our afternoon stupor. I had no choice but to sit in a corner at the table squeezed in between a man I know slightly and a woman who is my fifth cousin. Before me was a window and through it I could see saffron-colored leaves, a lovely and stark contrast to the pale gray sky.

For a brief moment I felt content, as though everything was aligned for my pleasure.

Small things, simple things. But lovely on a weekday afternoon.