.
On a sweet apple crisp cold day we walk
When the air is acrid with distant wood smoke
And bright Leaves fall with determination 
Creating the season’s rich tapestry.

I run to keep up
Your science makes me grateful 
For the rest 
I notice still
My loose-mitted hand tentatively held out 
To all manner of wonders that
My own hasty glances would have missed.

The stream, now  
A sweet musty rug of russet rot,
Rambling with red and black fodder
For urgent little colonies of foragers
Who wait for wonders of the earth to be passed 

There are days like this
Stopped
To sip sweet tea from your flask
The ecstasy of the smallest thing
Remembered.