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

There is a leisure about walking, no matter what pace you set, that lets down the tension.

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.

All our yesterdays are summarized in our now, and all the tomorrows are ours to shape.

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

The hush comes with the deepening of Autumn; but it comes gradually. Our ears are attuned to it, day by quieter day. But even now, if one awakens in the deep darkness of the small hours, one can hear it, a foretaste of Winter silence. It’s a little painful now, and a little lonely because it is so strange.

Year's end is neither an end nor a beginning but a going on, with all the wisdom that experience can instill in us.