Late November.
It's late now, and the cold gray days settle heavily into our bones as the weight of impending darkness pushes down a willing and tired sun, draped in clouds. The sharp autumn winds remain to shake the last leaves free from the slipping grip of their trees. Temperatures stick toward freezing as a light rain falls steadily to dampen ground and spirits alike. The earth dies every November, hosting a funeral march for miracles that rose gracefully out of the spring rains and shimmered prominently in the warm breeze of July amidst a sea of admiring smiles. The fireworks of a vibrant autumn bring the dance to its end, and we file out of the theatre in bittersweet procession, grateful to be witness to such a show. The curtain closes, and we are left standing in a field of matted grass surrounded by the stark forest, black, imposing, and raw.
(Written by Stephen Soule; quote from here.)
(Written by Stephen Soule; quote from here.)