I’m not sure what quickens me more peaceably than new shoots of grass coming up through the tawny past of summer. At night I walk up the mountain trail in night fog drizzle. Ah, rain. And in the morning awaken to a world greening and golden as black oak leaves turn and drift down taupe tan amber. They’re mulching the new shoots I love. And I could sit a long time watching the wavery flight of maple leaves above the canyon. They catch the last light until the world’s a blent tapestry I get to live in.
But before I hike a mountain trail, I drive to get there.