Fall is beautiful but wistful. Summer's past and winter awaits, perhaps on the very next gust. The transitions between the two is bright and golden as if splendor would somehow slow the passing season. But the march through time is inexorable and waits for nothing, neither leaves nor trees nor a small child. No matter. For now, there is a swaying bough showering leaves that need to be raked and whatever season it is today, it is the best season of all.
