Morning on the Hill

There are questions I ask myself every October morning when the skies are clear.

Have there ever been trees as golden in hue as these, and as expressive in their flowing movement? Have there ever been skies as blue, any old where or any time? Has there ever been another morning as perfect as this one in the story of the world?

We send our roots down into the good dark Lanark soil and stand with our arms upraised in sheer dancing jubilation (lovely word that, jubilation).