Akin to Anne

Driving under the maples in Harmony Ridge, I feel the spirit of Anne Shirley rise up through me. The light, grayed by thick November clouds, filters golden through the trees. Under the canopy, it's as if you live in a rose colored world, a world where nothing can harm you.

Anne would have named these trees. She would have called this the Amber Way of Enchantment, or something even more fanciful and silly. She would have walked the long way home, just to dance in the falling leaves. The hem of her dress would be soaked with mud from last night's rain storm, but she wouldn't care, at least until Marilla reminded her she should.

A blanket of leaves covers the ground, each leaf a little different, each one more beautiful than the last. The beauty to me lies in the temporary nature of the garish display. If the ridge was emblazoned all the time, I'd scarcely notice. But since it shows off for only a few days before undressing down to bare brown and gray, I allow it a moment of overindulgence.