Trees showed off their bare branches to the autumn sun. Others were shy and reluctant, and they clung to what little covering they had left. Leaves littered the forest floor, shed on by thin rays of light, creating a surrounding in which seemed to glow like embers. It was cold enough to make one feel snug, just enough, in their own skin. However, the teasing breeze, if just right, can make one reconsider having left their jacket behind; but just as one might turn away, the sigh of wind would stir the unsettled leaves, fathering a fiery dance of the golden-orange and yellow performers. Attention recaptured, the delicate dancers tire, and flutter back down to the cool dirt. It makes one wonder how vaguely brute characters such as the barren trees and cold leaves could act out an immensely spirited performance. Incited, now, by wander lust, the senses are carried to the depth of the forest. Hearing entertained by the chatter of birds and the mumbling of the leaves, sight dazzled by the colors of the stylish season, smell pricked by the sharpness of the cool air, like a blade lewd for the warmth of one’s body. And it caresses these senses, making them absorbed by the distinct flavor of autumn.