Huddled over a fallen silver maple.
A late autumn confluence at the East Putney Brook.
A late flourish at the Great Meadows.
A truss of fruit half-buried after plowing.
The great awakening begins.
Asymmetrical samaras lie atop the remains of their fallen brethren: in a grove of silver maples thriving on a Connecticut River setback in East Putney, Vermont.
In the tiny mill hamlet of East Putney, Vermont – built in 1832, of bricks made in the village.
The last light of the year glances across the corn stubble at Great Meadow.