in Thoreau’s Journal:

The stillness of the woods and fields is remarkable at this season of the year. There is not even the creak of a cricket to be heard. Of myriads of dry shrub oak leaves, not one rustles. Your own breath can rustle them, yet the breath of heaven does not suffice to.—  The trees have the aspect of waiting for winter. The autumnal leaves have lost their color—they are now truly sere, dead—and the woods wear a sombre color. Summer and harvest are over…

This is a peculiar season—peculiar for its stillness—the crickets have ceased their song. The few birds are well-nigh silent. The tinted and gay leaves are now sere and dead and the woods wear a sombre aspect.  A carpet of snow under the pines & shrub-oaks will make it look more cheerful—Very few plants have now their spring.  But thoughts still spring in man’s brain….