It is late September, and thousands of Aspen leaves clap their tiny hands across a valley of gold. I have been here before, many times, watching, listening. I forgot how much I love it. Above my head a red tail hawk pierces the deep blue sky. I have always wondered why in the fall the sky seems deeper and bluer.
Trees splatter with shades of Indian yellows and greens. I follow the rocky dirt path down into the aspen forest. The smell of wet rock leaves and rushing water fill my nostrils. I balance my way across the stream on large rocks and fallen logs. Three trails spread before me. I take the middle path that leads to a soft sunlit meadow of green and straw grasses and make my way to a large flat rock in the center of the field. There are angels here, I can feel them, they keep talking to me. Out on the edge of the field are these huge white aspen pillars. I feel I am in a sacred place with great white pillars and a gold leaf ceiling. The pillars watch me with their deep dark eyes. I sit cross-legged on the rock and gaze back at them. The sun warms my face and head. I close my eyes. I am drawn inward as silence swallows me. The thoughts in my head dissolve. I am the brilliance of an immaculate sun.