While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,

And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;

Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn

Among the river sallows, borne aloft

Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;

From To Autumn by John Keats

But the stubble fields I found in Janesville were drab brown and freezing cold. Autumn, however, was on fire with color.