Leaves

Flying back in the plane tilts and I look down to the ground. It is all shades of dull yellow, brown, and red. Punctuated by the green of the golf course we're passing. I remember the filters they used on O Brother, to give it the scorched look it had. I think of the hills of south California and how they may be clothed in similar colors as well.

This evening I sat in the back yard and looked up at the sky through the trees. The leaves on the left were yellow; those on the right still green. A rainbow arched through them and a passing jet intersected it making a Venn diagram in the sky. I remembered the leaves from yesterday.

I felt tired, but satisfied. Last year I'd been as exhausted, but the feedback this year, although less hyperbolic, came from people whose opinions matter to me, people I'd never imagined would say the things they did. That felt good, still does, and will for some time. But then last year's truism is dated no less: You overcommit, others underdeliver, people politic, backstab, snipe, gossip, and your true friends are the ones who are there when the chips are down, the ones who make you such that there will come a time when you won't need them even though you want to, which is why you will.

I threw a pebble in a brook
And watched the ripples run away
And they never made a sound
And the leaves that are green
Turned to brown