The songbirds have departed, and chill winds flick leaves from the chokecherry. Our summer shoes are now stashed near the door. You would think, with winter bullying its way toward us from some unremarkable place in the Arctic, a kind of sadness might infect our thinking.
But
no.
We
celebrate instead, in the good light of early morning. There is no other sky
that can compare to this. The blue is without flaw, and the mountains have
adopted pink as their own, even if only for a moment.
Later,
we can walk to where our shadows never try to escape from underneath us. The
air will be cool then, but not cold. Maybe the chickadees will find us out
there. They have been gone since early summer, and I miss them.
—Mitchell
Hegman
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