October is the fallen leaf, but it is also a wider horizon more clearly seen. It is the distant hills once more in sight, and the enduring constellations above them once again.

A woodland in full color is awesome as a forest fire, in magnitude at least; but a single tree is like a dancing tongue of flame to warm the heart.

There it is, fog, atmospheric moisture still uncertain in destination, not quite weather and not altogether mood, yet partaking of both.

No Winter lasts forever, no Spring skips its turn. April is a promise that May is bound to keep, and we know it.

Summer ends, and Autumn comes, and he who would have it otherwise would have high tide always and a full moon every night.