I'm actually a big fan of Autumn and being that I live out here in "apple country" where people flock to look at leaves, drink cider, pick apples, and take hay rides each fall I get a pretty good shot of it. Spent the other day atop Mount Wachusett taking in the colors, the incredible view and sipping apple wine.

Ok, so what I was going to say is for me certain music works well for driving around in the fall. Here's what I've been viewing fall foliage to:

"Our Man In Paris" - Dexter Gordon

I think you could call this timeless music Cass. I know it's an old record but I have not picked up anything new lately...and there's just something about this record. I can't help pulling it out every fall.

Ok, and here's a little poetry for you, not quite Keats but it's one that works well for this time of year.

After Apple-Picking

My long two-pointed ladder's sticking through a tree
Toward heaven still,
And there's a barrel that I didn't fill
Beside it, and there may be two or three
Apples I didn't pick upon some bough.
But I am done with apple-picking now.
Essence of winter sleep is on the night,
The scent of apples: I am drowsing off.
I cannot rub the strangeness from my sight
I got from looking through a pane of glass
I skimmed this morning from the drinking trough
And held against the world of hoary grass.
It melted, and I let it fall and break.
But I was well
Upon my way to sleep before it fell,
And I could tell
What form my dreaming was about to take.
Magnified apples appear and disappear,
Stem end and blossom end,
And every fleck of russet showing clear.
My instep arch not only keeps the ache,
It keeps the pressure of a ladder-round.
I feel the ladder sway as the boughs bend.

And I keep hearing from the cellar bin
The rumbling sound
Of load on load of apples coming in.
For I have had too much
Of apple-picking: I am overtired
Of the great harvest I myself desired.
There were ten thousand thousand fruit to touch,
Cherish in hand, lift down, and not let fall.
For all
That struck the earth,
No matter if not bruised or spiked with stubble,
Went surely to the cider-apple heap
As of no worth.
One can see what will trouble
This sleep of mine, whatever sleep it is.
Were he not gone,
The woodchuck could say whether it's like his
Long sleep, as I describe its coming on,
Or just some human sleep.
-Robert Frost