Last November I frequently walked the Greenbelt Trail. As the leaves turned and fell to earth I came to know the moods of the 11th month: mysterious, colorful and vibrant and finally diffused with pale light and subtle color.

Mysterious is the mood of November's first week. Fog, heavy, wet and cool shrouds the air. It covers trees swathed in reds, yellows, orange, rust and a lone cranberry-colored bush. Leaves squish underfoot. They come down nonstop, silently and slowly, one at a time. Then a breeze sends down showers of them. Out of nowhere come the honking sounds of what must be a thousand Canada Geese. I see nothing but heavy mist. Then perhaps two dozen of them appear partially hidden in the soup and quickly disappear into a veil of fog.

In late morning the woods still have the traces of fog. Everything is so still that it seems that a theatrical performance is soon to start. No bird can be heard or seen; slender tree trunks remain gray in a nebulous haze. There are only leaves silently falling. Waiting for the performance to start I realize that it is already in progress and I've come late. The Greenbelt Trail itself is the theater, the trees are its stage setting and the leaves are the performers. The notes I take are my program.

The next day, crisp and bright, leaves are in vibrant color. But there is still a hint of mystery in the air. My eyes play tricks on me, mistaking some shadows of falling leaves for passing birds. In an old tree there looks to be the dark head of a miniature bear sticking out like a cuckoo clock. Looking closely with binoculars, my bear's head is actually a saucer-shaped, chocolate brown mushroom. The sun on it had produced a black shadow and the confusing appearance.

Down a steep hill, in the middle of a winding path, snapped like a matchstick, lies a newly fallen tree. The wood at the break is freshly exposed and the huge fallen tree gives me pause to consider whether I should go any further. I hold my breath when my jacket accidentally catches on a thin branch as I bend to get under and past the tree trunk. Stepping free I make a mental note to get a little lower when returning later. Looking up, a falling leaf hits me in the eye. Look out. I notice a tree with red leaves brighter than bright, swathed in sun. Next to it is a tree with super bright yellow leaves. Beyond is blue sky. A pair of downy woodpeckers is on two adjacent bare-limbed trees. The male's telltale red cap appears smeared as it robotically climbs underneath and up thin limbs pecking away for insects with its small javelin bill. I watch both side by side until they are gone. An obvious pair of male and female birds is unusual. I look around and wonder why it's all here. It's not really a question but part of November's mood.

At the bottom of another steep hill by the LIRR tracks I sit on a makeshift fence with the breeze as company staring at the expanse of rust and yellow leaves of trees that line the side of the tracks. It's a country scene. There's a train whistle and a rumble in the distance---it's coming! Silence. Or is it? Yes! There are the headlights and a loud clatter. The cars go by fast but not in a blur. I see a lone conductor in his compartment, with his elbow on the lowered window. Would he prefer to be out here?

Perhaps a week before the month's end bulldozed on a piece of property that borders the trail. I see a wall of bone-dry earth and stones. On this inhospitable soil are plants all with large green leaves, some with smaller red ones and all with blue berries. The stem is tough, almost rubbery. I cannot but admire the life that grows here. It won't survive the winter. But December is not yet here and life abounds.

There's a throaty, hissing sound. Looking around I see only empty trees. Silence. Nothing. Then a large form comes flying languidly around the perimeter of trees at the edge of a hill. It's a pale, red-tailed hawk. The raptor's seen me before I saw it. I think; hope it might land on a tree but the bird keeps going. Now I hear the chirping of a red-bellied woodpecker on a tree. I watch it's red capped head briefly as it quickly starts to scour the tree's branches for insects. A rabbit bounds across the path propelled by powerful hind legs leaving a flash of its white rump in my eyes and the faint echo of thump, thump in my ears. Survival mode.

A few days before the end of November a pleasant day offers pale light, grasses turning tan; leaves that were vibrantly red a few weeks ago are a dusty rose color; dried leaves crinkle underfoot. The leaves of the blue berry plants hang over like dried seaweed touching cold earth. Only a couple of berries remain. Fallen flags and soldiers on a still battlefield; sad yet hauntingly beautiful. I stand there letting the colors and mood seep through my eyes into memory.

A pool of water oddly has ice, which breaks under the poke of my walking stick. Nature's most theatrical season is coming to an end. In the weeks ahead trees will become denuded and winter's frost and cold will settle on the Greenbelt Trail. Near where the trail comes out on Jericho Turnpike a male golden-crowned kinglet appears. I saw one here a month ago as the sun fell in shafts illuminating the kinglet's bright, fluffy orange/yellow crown. Now its dark orange/yellow crown is smaller and duller than it was then. It is flitting from branch to branch, tree to tree, touching everything. Perhaps like me it doesn't want November to end.