Fall. When the wind picks up, the sky burns bright, and the world turns amber.
Leaves float slowly down, falling in perfect time. Clear, piercing light filters through. The aroma of autumn wafts into your nostrils, subtle scents of pine, maple, and wind.
Crisp crunches greet your feet as you walk down the sidewalk, sneakers pushing aside swirls of browned leaves, to reveal cracked concrete below.
The wind billows about you, shifting patterns of gold shadow on your face. You step onward, emerging from the sidestreet, to it's joiner, running at cross purpose, and there you see it. There it is.
The sun, casting golden bright light all down the street, illuminating all. Mailboxes gilt with golden glory, trees face in full basking warmth, curb and concrete all awash in this effervescent elegance.
Every stone slab, every grass blade, every floating leaf is adorned with the flush of fall, the flared fullness of profound perfection.
Standing with inarticulate awe, face aglow in amazing radiance, you too take part in this avenue of the awesome.
Empty of pretension, caught in wonder, uncontrolled radiance shines down on you.
This is grace. Splendor of this sort is owed to no one, and yet you have it freely. This is grace, from God above.