before the clocks turned back, i liked to walk to and from work through central park each day. there's this one tree, my fire tree, by the promenade that i am drawn to year after year. three quarters of the months, she looks the same as all the other trees, but come october, she's quite different -- quite other. i wonder if the neighbor trees are envious of her flame.
and how brief it all is. for mere weeks each year, our world is buttoned up in a technicolor dreamcoat and something deep down in my marrow comes most alive in this fleeting season when leaves jingle in a gust of wind and confetti the earth below.
each morning this week, i have taken time to walk slowly -- carefully -- around the upper west side, to really notice the way autumn looks laid upon this place. to pay attention to the shape of the shadows cast by light and leaves. to cradle hot coffee between my hands. to feel the air, crisp and holy.
yesterday, i paused to photograph a particular stretch of columbus avenue and, just out of frame, floating from a bench on the sidewalk: a mother's voice, singing softly to her babe. that is holy, too.