If this light is here for me to see, I should not stop until I have come to see it.
If it is not, I will silently remember how it folded itself in and around the turning leaves. How it debated with shadow on the merits of exposure or hiding. How it washed a chain link fence in pale yellow and creamy white. How it stealthily warmed the air lapping up against my face.
I am a monarch here, clothed in so many colors. If I should leave, my cloak follows me in rapt codas of autumn.