As the year fails, the waxing crescent moon hides among the trees, its dispersed light reaching places that will be shadowed later in the lunar cycle. There is a softness to these evenings, countering the autumn air's chill, and I am invited to linger outdoors, breathing the season's subtle mingling of freshness and decay. The pungent mulch now forming where fallen leaves are strewn is redolent of both the spring which is gone and that which is promised. The grass, rejuvenated by the early rains, is tender beneath the blanket of leaves, and the diminished deciduous canopy reveals the stars that summer abundance recently hid. Each season has its uses and its forms, and the autumn evening is filled with reminders of them all. Preparing for its winter nap, the land reveals both the transience of beauty and the beauty of transience. The dew-tipped pine needles shimmer with pale moonlight, as insubstatial as passing time.