October approaches and saturates my senses, neither scent nor taste, yet both and still more. It envelops me like smoke, vapors rising from phoenix ashes. All things die in winter to be born again, and autumn is the blaze of glory, the trail of the comet. The transient beauty in all things becomes more apparent as it peaks and fades; the bittersweet tang quickens my blood, the current pulling relentlessly. The squirrel outside the window digs with tiny paws, eyes shining blackly with blind thought of ACORN, and my hands curl with the feel of fur. Everything is so perfect within itself. A kernel of popcorn is a raindrop until it becomes a snowflake, and where is a greater miracle than that? I am spellbound by the pumpkins in their bins; smooth, orange rinds slide under my fingers. The ridges and dimples and cracks are a secret message to those who care to read. I want to take it all in, but I am not large enough to hold the world and can only stand in the wind transfixed as it runs through me. It is an agony of impossibility, that the universe even is, that a pumpkin exists, and therefore all things are possible. It leaves me moon-mad to a degree, and I dance in unlikely public places.