You think, perhaps, you’ll capture only the prettiest leaves, the most colorful mushrooms. But there are so many. Each as good as the last, and how could you possibly judge, anyway? How could you possibly do them justice, anyway?
In only an hour, you walk away with the setting sun on your shoulders, reach the still kettle hole, return with the warmest light in your eyes. The spiders have tied twig to twig with their webs, decorating the woods with shimmer that slides up and down the strings like a violin bow. And it occurs to you that September is like a line of music, perpetually resolving from phrase to phrase, yet somehow never arriving at the home note.
It occurs to you that September is the home note, the refrain anchoring the rondeau of the years.