Many mornings before the sun came over the Blue Ridge Mountains,
I ventured out into the brisk air.

This was the season when the bumble bee abandoned the flower,

When the leaves, frost-crisp’d, were hewn down.

“Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,

Bare ruin’d choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.” *

Burnt orange, yellow, and brown hues, crunching underfoot, like a new carpet. 

I, being first on the trail, swiped at cobwebs across my path. 

All the dewy mornings, faint hunter’s moon, and the patter of squirrels on green moss, as the dawn dissolved the darker forms.

My sneakers, damp on the tips. 

I heard the distant click of the early train, and my feet shuffling through the leaves. The sun began to flicker in and out of the trees as I rose towards the top of the mountain. 

Listen. Be still.

I passed the angel-like rock slab.

I am almost to the top. My heart filled with reverent affirmations.