I fall in love with Ontario every Fall. It seems a short season to sustain my residence here, but in autumn, I can't imagine being elsewhere. The blue light filtered is through golds and reds; at once of crisp and clear and warm. It's this time of year I wish most for a car. The summer cottage scene has nothing on the drama that's unfolding now. I made this photo in Algonquin Park a few years ago.
This is just an excerpt of a Billy Collins poem. You can read the full poem here.
I am writing this on a strip of white birch bark
that I cut from a tree with a penknife.
There is no other way to express adequately
the immensity of the clouds that are passing over the farms
and wooded lakes of Ontario and the endless visibility
that hands you the horizon on a platter.
I am also writing this in a wooden canoe,
a point of balance in the middle of Lake Couchiching,
resting the birch bark against my knees.
I can feel the sun’s hands on my bare back,
but I am thinking of winter,
snow piled up in all the provinces
and the solemnity of the long grain-ships
that pass the cold months moored at Owen Sound.