I took this photo a year ago in June along my little trail in the middle of a rainstorm that felt as if it were created by the clouds in my own heart.
I question, then, if landscapes might hold imprints of memory, like repositories of the encounters that have occurred within them, and while we can dance around this understanding academically, we may not be able to address it with the rigor demanded of Western science.
It is September, and the berries are black, heavy, sweet (ish), and ripe. The sky is no longer August blue but September blue, and if you look at the sky often enough, you know the difference. Green is fading from the landscape, bits of yellow in its place. The Quaking Aspen leaves take on a new sound despite still appearing green. It’s a hollowness in their susurration (say this spell with me, feel the way it sounds on your lips: susurration). There is a crisp lightness where a heavy lushness used to be. A thinning of their essence.
