Older Daughter and I took a walk down a familiar trail the other day. It was midafternoon and there wasn’t much wildlife to be seen. But this woodpecker tree was one of several reminders that the woodland inhabitants were alive and well.

The trail wound invitingly among ferns and trees. We’ll have a few months of color, then the winter monchromatic palette will be back in play.

I thought this fuzzy fungus was a mouse at first.

We descended to a favorite spot along the creek, a small waterfall that always invites us for a picnic (though we never have one packed).

The picturesque scene hides a tragedy. The water was low enough that we walked up the creekbed instead of returning to the trail. At the base of the falls, hidden here by the pile of flood debris, was a dead rabbit, soaked with mud, eyes still open in panic. Somehow it had been washed down the creek and killed.

It was a disturbing sight. I’ve often noticed the waste of roadkill — animals hit by cars by accident. Nature is usually more purposeful, and a favorite mantra of nature writers is “the economy of nature.” But this was an example of pure accident. I couldn’t help brooding over it as we walked on.

Raccoons had left their prints along the edge, attracted by the crayfish and frogs.

It was a nice walk, though we were out at the wrong time of day to see any early warblers coming through on their way back south. The almanac predicts another harsh winter, and I saw some warblers on the move when we vacationed north of here a few weeks ago. Hopefully we’ll see a few in the days to come.

They look like they’ve just arrived from someplace warmer, a small group of tourists looking hopefully around for accommodations.

Then there’s this one, growing in a tiny stream. Bloom where you’re planted.

We enjoyed the gorgeous glen on a sunny day. The joyous spring sound of rushing water was everywhere.

Wet-loving plants and mosses adorned the shale walls and dead trees.

I was taken with the sense of heights as we walked down the streambed. Everywhere, the steep banks invited us to look upward toward the sun.

The contrast between light and dimness caught my attention. So did the contrast between beauty and violence.  You can’t get a stream picture that doesn’t include trees fallen down steep banks, broken and rotting — or great stones tumbled who knows how far by the water at its strongest.

Someone had created a space for humans along one part of the bank.

I, along with my daughters, joined in. We left our names there beside a growing number of others.

The leaves are nowhere near their peak, but that’s not to say there isn’t plenty of fall color. The light has that special fall look, too — somehow brighter and more merciless. I’m not sure why that word comes to mind, but it does.

It makes for more brilliant reflections on water, where it’s hard to tell where the real ends and the reflection begins.

We enjoyed a sunbathed walk yesterday along paths that invited reflection of a different kind.

It’s always amazing to me when the eye falls on something as tiny as this toad among the heights and colors of the forest.

So many places for little things to hide….

…and the animals are taking on their winter colors. This young deer blended in so well it didn’t even bother to run away.

We walked a little further and met another. They were both from this spring’s batch of fawns, I’m guessing, and they were very unwary.

This one walked up to us, curious and utterly innocent.

It came within 8 feet to check us out.

Finally it figured out that we weren’t familiar or promising, and bounded away down the trail.

I’ve never been approached that closely by a deer before. Hopefully this youngster wouldn’t be so slow to react to a coyote!

It was a lovely day for a walk, and this encounter was definitely a highlight.

Normally, I don’t take walks in the evening. I was glad my husband was with me on this one, because the woods had a certain ancient, waiting feeling about them — like the forests you encounter in books like those of Tolkien or Susanna Clarke. The only birds singing were hermit thrushes. They seemed to be stationed at intervals along the way, just frequently enough that one was always sending out its silvery, solitary song.

These two are photos of a veery — more often heard than seen!