Do treat yourself to a solitary walk during dusk-light—waning effulgence, snuffed out by shadows.

Listen to whispers of November’s tattered yellows and browns and hesitant reds, strewn along wooded trails and massed against curbs. Be startled by a burning bush still gripping its scarlets.

See thinning banks of Missouri honeysuckle revealing the serpentine curve of the limestone creek bottom, its waters reduced to a trickle that pool in crevices. Above, ache with the naked branches snaking down like hag’s hair. Watch a gray squirrel dodge its tail scuttling up a tree.

Touch three hand-sized-leaves of the London plane tree, tinged with a yellow blush, clenching the end of a solitary branch.

Feel winds clicking the mottled husks of a dogwood tree, stripped of its wine-crimson foliage and berries.

Such moments evoke deep smiles. We are not alone.

 

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