- The trees have begun to turn. Outside my office, in the sunshine (the glorious, glorious sunshine!), there is: a golden tree, an emerald tree and a silver tree. There is a peridot tree set in silver bark (a birch?). But that golden tree puts them all to shame. It is burning, burnished, old gold. With silver bark. Like in Lothlórien. If I could stand under it and banish the sounds of undergraduates, of workmen, of chainsaws (they are building something next door. Even less space for the rabbits next year), I would cry for joy at having found Middle Earth.
- Near the park, by the mill, in the raging sunset yesterday, there is a tree that is turning left and right at once: green green deep green on some branches, like the brightest days of summer. And deep, deep crimson on others, like a stain, like a heartburst, like a pinprick from the intuition of coming snow.
- On the grass, tiny yellow daffodils, still.
The summer shines down, yes, but the earth seems to drink it right up, and the honeyness seeps out slowly, slowly, richly, thickly. I want to go out! I want to breathe it in! I want to find someone with whom I can drink in the light of these trees.
