Indian summer. Where did that term come from? When I was little, year after year the Chicago Tribune published a quaint little cartoon about it. In it, an old man explains to his grandson that Indian summer is when the spirits of the Indians come back to their land. The leaves colors are the war paint rubbing off of the Indian's skin. The haze and distant smoke come from their pipes. Politically incorrect, I'm not sure if the fanciful little cartoon is still published or should be published. But I think about it in the hazy seventies sunshine, looking at trees gone riotous in reds and oranges.

Can someone categorize every shade of color appearing on these trees? Can one label the yearning autumn brings, even in the midst of being steeped in all the beauty? I think it's a wake up call. Stop, nature screams in siren tones. Look. That's all. Look. Be. This is it.