Leaf and Cookie

Somewhere high in the San Juan Mountains of southwestern Colorado, outside the town of Durango, an aspen grove was doing its fall aspen thing, shimmering and rustling and whispering aspen secrets. Its leaves had slipped into something more appropriate for the season, yellows and browns to match the pale, waving grass, and they had begun to give up, let go, and move on to the next part of their cycle.

Except for one. One golden leaf heard us coming, rumbling up an old dirt mining road in our four-wheel-drive, and instead of falling aimlessly to the ground, it waited until the time was just right, then released its grip and rode the air currents like a wingsuit flier. It fluttered and flipped and yes! latched itself onto the radio antenna mounted in the center of the roof, wrapping around that skinny metal limb, where it clung, precariously but surely.

A new chapter had begun. Instead of an anonymous ending beside a backcountry road, this leaf