The trees are so much loftier here. Their leaves are big, flat sheets that shuffle noisily with the slightest bit of stirring or fall from sensational altitude with contrived dignity, like a improvisational dances by ballerinas who withdrew from lessons but then defiantly made an appearance at the recital anyhow. Why aren’t they wearing shades of amber, rust, and gold?
Those aren’t dark clouds in the distance between the tree branches, I am told. Those are mountains. Apparently I must humbly meditate on the performance of irresponsible ballerinas before I’ll be able to see the mountains in all their majesty. How chaotic. How cathartic.