But not necessarily the color of leaves.
Instead I mean the polished black of canyon walls, tire marks on slickrock, bottoms of boats ghost surfing in rapids. Or the hue of that intermediate space between the fringe of your campfire and what lies beyond.
The white of pounding water, cloud tops, or bared (as in laughter!) teeth.
The blue of a bruise, of the spaces between flittering leaves, of a mood.
The burnt sienna of navajo sandstone, of the spots on a spawning male brookie. Or the top of Fang's head.
The gold of dormant grasses refracting low angle light. Of the tops of aspen trees seen from above, from a higher ridge. Of Greg's monstrous "day" pack.
The red of sangre dripping from skinned knees and elbows, or slain game. Of poison ivy, or cheeks flushed with exertion.
The green of rainbow trout seen through 6' of gin clear water, of mosses clinging to polished granite, of growth in your riding pack bladder. Of leaves and grasses not yet turned.
The infinite greys of lengthening shadows, silhouettes, cloud bottoms at midday. The grey that means sun-warmed boulders to nap upon.
The blur of the collective whole as we race to embrace this most alive time of year.