Falling In deep contemplation the cello ushers in the morning light as the sun appears over the green mountain and the slender thermometers of grass shed the glistening mercury of night: elusive quicksilver, poured from the sky, that dances in starlight and disappears each morning into the damp, September earth. By day the grasses grow redder, in a fever of gratitude for the season, for transition, in this frenzy of free fall, in this beautiful autumn. We have been so busy tracing root systems back to the source, trusting our substance, standing up in the wind but learning to bend. I want to rest like quiet blades of grass in each other's arms, alive and steaming, beneath a white blanket of snow.