The silvery leaves of the ancient poplar tree reflect the mellow autumn light across the land even as the shadows grow longer. Gone is the harsh brilliance of summer. It is replaced with a more subtle and subdued quality of light that allows the land to sink into a kind of reverie as though the very earth itself was contemplating the fruits of its labor and preparing itself for its time of rest.

In the air there lingers a dreamy wistfulness, a kind of mellowness that comes when the intense labor of the season has been completed.

These days of quiet respite were made for the dreamer, for the poet that lives deep in the heart of all of us. It is on the wings of dream that truth enters our heart. It is out of just such dreams that great music and great works of art are born and brought to fruition and poetry is created. All of those splendid colors that are to be seen only in autumns brief time call out to even the most pragmatic soul and set the heart to singing some half remembered melody from out of the long ago.

It is difficult to remain indifferent in the midst of autumns fiery immolation.

Some where deep in my psyche lives a gypsy that must respond to the call of autumn hills and tread the pathways of the woodlands and be a part of all this medley of gold and crimson, purple and bronze, orange and lemon, auburn and tangerine.

With every passing year it seems to me, these glory days of autumn become more precious.

More than ever they demand my full attention and participation. To soon this will all fade away only to be replaced by the austerity of winter.

And so I must enter autumn's colorful dream scape with all of my senses open in order that my memory will retain these bright images through the lackluster days of winter.