A chilly nose on an afternoon walk through slippery brown leaves obscuring a partially frozen path, numbed fingers digging into cool pockets in search of warmth
The distant smell of chimney smoke and burning leaves overpowered by the sickeningly sweet scent of rotting apples splayed beneath the orchard, long past their prime
The tang of hot cider spiked with rum inside a cozy room with a fire while your hands are clutching the sinewy insides of a warm pumpkin, awaiting a moment inspiration
The ominous piano notes of "Halloween" playing on a TV set while the laughter and echoing sounds of trick-or-treaters outdoors beat the twilight to enter the dark corridor of Samhain
Tendrils of fog obscuring the trickling creek lined with shiny wet stones, a deer poised to drink, startled by the plinking of random acorns dropping on the forest floor
Swaying trees dabbled in golds, oranges, reds, and browns, the fluttering descent of a leaf aflame waiting to be pressed into wax paper to be remembered for its moment of perfection
A forest has its seasons, some are for growth and sprouting new life, other times for abundance and proliferation, still other times for stasis. Then, there is autumn. It is the little miracle that shows that before suspended animation and after the massive growth spurt, there is a burst of beauty, wisdom, and inescapable brillance in its prime. Living only in that moment.