Fall. In the mountains.
Air so crisp it crackles.
Light so fragile it breaks your heart.
High likelihood of encountering the intermittent presence -- nothing more than an ephemeral pocket -- of that most elusive elixir: Rotting leaf mold. Nothing announces the zenith of the season quite so succinctly.
Temps utterly perfect -- despite wild daily swings -- for those of us wired a certain way.
You know it won't last. Can't.
You wish it would go on forever. Can even convince yourself, sometimes, sorta, that winter isn't so close.
Doom gave us a rolling tour of a corner of his backyard.
It was the sort of day where you could have, wanted to, wished you would have, curled up under an aspen and spectated the shadows creeping as the day progressed. Counted leaves that landed on you, maybe even those that missed. Nothing more. When you weren't napping.
But that's not how Doom rolls. So we rolled with him. And this is what we experienced.
Thanks for checkin' in.