Anxiety, butterflies, nervous for no good or obvious reason is how my walk in Charles River woods begins. It is a morning of the first thing I see out my bedroom window: a spectacular sunrise sky. I drive to a favorite place to walk along the Charles, I will take my time. I want a long hike under such blue autumn, and there is the most exquisite light breeze and the wafting scent of licorice, and the meadow grass waving, waving good morning. The black-eyed Susans will not surrender, they will last and last, and even in their withered state their bones are pretty. In the forest of foliage of trees, I breathe. I am of the trees, I am in the stillness of lemon-lime leaves. The river is reflecting, sky, such a joyful sky over an anxious land. This swampy meadow, and the footpath through it, is full of birds, their berries, their songs. What about this milkweed going to seed, if I go to seed, when I go to seed, how will I fall apart this elegantly? I must discover the way.