“He'd grown unused to woods like this. He'd become accustomed to the
Northwest, evergreen and shaded dark. Here he was surrounded by soft
leaves, not needles; leaves that carried their deaths secretly inside
them, that already heard the whispers of Autumn. Roots and branches that
knew things.”
~
I know that these are green trees left over from summer, but it was three weeks into autumn, in Yosemite, and summer had been gone, officially, for three weeks, so I gave them to autumn. I love Yosemite. It's just there for the fantasy of it.
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