It seems that every day there is a new color in the air, in the wooded hills, tinting the edges of the treetops with a sweet-smelling tinge of decay. I look up and suddenly the sky is bluer, emptier, as if you can see farther into the atmosphere when the air is cold. I noticed the trees dancing in the sunlight through the windows of my car as I passed by. The maples are the first to change. They go from lime to crimson, that cinnamon-cherry color dripping down over the leaves like candy-apple topping drips down over sweet green flesh. If you were to cut down a tree like that, it would slice open like a fruit, white and sap-sour and juicy on the inside.

At evening the sun slants in at yellow angles, backlighting the red leaves, the young apple tree. The cool grass, so variantly green in its sun and shadows, able to drink it in with your eyes. I cannot imagine much else other than this. I do not think that I will ever want to, or need.

When I haven't words to tell my understanding, this silent waking is everything and more than words require.