Occasionally, some sunlight fell upon the path, which was ... scattered with the mysterious dried-up fruits of various trees fashioned into little brown toys and emblems, which crackled pleasantly underfoot.
(Iris Murdoch, The Good Apprentice -
Can't say I remember a huge amount about this novel, except it's based in part on the somewhat unlikely premise that someone on LSD would throw himself out of a window in the belief that he could fly. But the little crackling toys and emblems on the forest floor have always stayed with me).
There's so little for the camera to play with at this grey-green-brown time of year, though the light can be good when it shows itself. Despite mounds and layers of gently majestic cloud, and flocks of larks and lapwings (fewer of these than other years), I tend to keep my eyes down, looking at sepia shapes of leaves and husks, livid, waxy discs and domes of late fungi, thick bunches of emerald sorrel. There have been no frosts to speak of, though; flakes of gold and bronze leaves still hover on the trees, and fuchsias and roses keep on flowering in the garden, along with the hellebores opening and the daffodils coming up.
Old things, still lovely, linger, new ones emerge beside them. The light lengthens.