“No one over thirty-five is worth meeting who has not something to teach us,—
something more than we could learn for ourselves, from a book.”

by Cyril Connolly

Winter wanders south. The moon, brilliant in October, moves over mountains.
The wind shifts lightly. The birds, so noisy in evening, settle in and the flowers
gather and group for night while the grass waits open for the nightly return
of deer and elk. Winter wanders south. The fish settle lower and feed less intently.
The trees shed their summer coats and stand patiently for the measuring of winter suits.

The larger trees tell stories of storms, of starving deer and elk biting into bark
and the younger trees tense and tighten as the elders sigh and dance and sing of fine spring.