Umber is one of nature’s most natural earthen pigments. I find no umber in spring, absolutely not in winter, summer for me is mostly green. I can’t call it simply brown when the sun’s shining like now, because it casts off a goldenness, moments before, everything so cloudy when it had reddish tones, mild winds ushers in its yellow hues, and more than any other month or season of the year October is tremendously umber.
It’s underfoot, leaves on far off ridges, that have given into the fall frosts with specks of reds and oranges and yellows of the leaves long since turned, dropped, but clinging to a bit of it before being fermented back into the ground, like reloading for next fall.
Cattails, plump, all pastels of tanned browns, red osier dogwood in its prime, all mix, meld in the eye, as if I could just reach out and somehow touch it, swirled of shafted sun’s rays, gentle breezes, my eye sees it, but it requires distance. I can touch the fronds of dead aster, but they show no umber, pine bows up close, ain’t there, step back, take the long view, the dreamy melancholy stare and so peaceful a feeling across the watery void. Oh there it is, unmistakable, it will certainly let one gaze upon it, but you ain’t gonna get to touch it.
So get the most of it while you can, for far too soon, umber goes to slumber, under a massive blanket of white.
- The Trout Whisperer
