The colors beside the roads are lovely. At times I feel distracted by their beauty. Once this week I parked on the shoulder to gaze at a tree whose leaves were like tangerines. The transformation is surprisingly swift. I suppose it has to do with temperature and humidity, and maybe the amount of rainfall last summer. Those factors elude me, but the colors do not. 

 

I especially marvel at the branches that carry a palette of colors. Orange, scarlet, and lemon play together more nicely than some sisters squished into bunk beds when what they wanted was their own room. The slide between hues reminds me, no proves to me, that our differences are more fluid than one might insist. When I attend a local parade, and clap for those marchers who are decked out in uniform, I recall that yesterday I saw them in the grocery store wearing sweats. They are my neighbors, even though they play a mean trumpet. 

 

The glide between the current iteration of myself, and the one that is even now evolving is smooth as well. Yes, I felt resentful about being left out of a decision at work last week. But today I can hold it gently. They had a time crunch, and needed to go forward. With my first few children I misplaced my temper often enough to alarm the neighbors. But with the last pair, I had the grace to inquire about sibling disputes without volume. 

 

When I consider the alternative, I shudder. Having no change in either the sycamores or my disposition sounds bleak indeed.