There are questions I ask myself on stained glass mornings in late autumn when the skies are clear.
Have there ever been trees as golden as these, as expressive in their flowing seasonal movement? Have there ever been skies as blue, any old where or any old time? Has there ever been another morning as perfect as this one in the story of the world? Could I survive without the changing of the seasons one into another, over and over again?
We stand on the ridge among the drowsy wind tossed trees, and we send our own roots down into the good dark earth. Our arms are upraised like branches in sheer dancing jubilation, our hands cupped to hold mannas of dew and light - a lovely word to be sure is jubilation. One can see the sun through every persevering leaf in the overstory.
When we arrive home, I upload photo after photo and, wonder of wonders, I seem to have captured the wind in its own madcap choreography. The leaves in my images are alight and glowing like church windows, and they all seem to be dancing.