The azure sky, lit with a milken sun of the autumnal equinox. The blazen trees relinquishing their canopy, as one by one the leaves dance their swan song pirouettes to the raucous mattress. The air still, frosty, fresh, with its heady aroma of decaying vegetation. The stream, fast, black and fridgid.. the otters and trout, how do they harken to this harbinger of ice? The forest floor, bejewled with lingonberries and crisp with pine needles, silent, inviting, pristine. The lake, clad in a morning mist, grey, hiding its treasures. Tessa, obedient innocent and free, loyal and unworried; a state anyone of faith should aspire to. Autumn, glorious autumn.