He said it on the radio today. Some phrases carry with them, a bag of profoundity. This was one of those phrases, “Indian Summer”. Like a stone skipping across the water. Winter’s pebble strikes the surface, then a subtle warm peace is leveed before a second cavatation. It is actually an official, formal nod to being blessed. A perfect oppurtunity to bask in the sunshine while still fumbling under fall’s blanket. A chance to wiggle our toes in the open air and settle in for a cozy winter. As i come home, the tree’s colors are booming. A distance of hue surrounds everyone causing a uniformity like a line of soldiers. From faraway you see the army of brightness. Marching up the mountainside attacking the gentle blue sky with a shaking roar saying, “Winter is upon us”. Up close, each remains and island of vivid saturation, personal, unique, and confident. If trees were blind, then god must truly not exist. For what cruel power would create this speckled splendor and not grant it’s bearer the art of beholding?