The colors of late fall are mature, subtle ones. The flamers, the few we had, have flamed out. What’s left are russets, dark oranges, pale golds.

When I wander in the woods, I slide through piles of dried leaves. This is where all the color has gone. Shriveled, crisped, beaten by rake and foot.

But this, I remind myself, is how new leaves begin. The soil for saplings is being crushed and created all around us. And though the brave colors are fading,  new colors are waiting in bud and stem.