It smelled of pumpkins,

grass, and sweet soft endings.

It fit between my strings and then sat behind my ear.

I wonder who left it for me?

Did they know I'd write a song,

Or keep it to press between the pages of my life?

A single tree on a hill has filled me with inspiration, beauty and a sense of calm that I have been longing for. My fingers grow numb writing this, for the sun that had previously made the yellow leaves above me glow against the brilliant contrast of the blue November sky, now is slowly descending behind the distant buildings. Casting one last muted ray full of amber and cinnamon upon my pages, it leaves me with the memory of my beautiful day and the inspiration its rays left upon my paper, strings, and heart.

I love sunsets in the city.

As the sun descends into the Hudson River, every building is gently painted with a soft golden hue that slowly drips down to the street until the sun is gone and the buildings turn into dusty pink statues waiting to be enveloped by the night.

One by one windows are lit, tops of buildings are torched, and the street lamps do their best to imitate and support the moon.

It's like watching an invisible hand paint the inside of your own personal snow globe.

And here I sit...

Huddled on the top of a little hill,

In front of a little tree....

Observing the creation of my own little globe.

I imagine a soft brush dipping into pots of gold, orange, purple, pink, blue and gray,

And then being swept across the thin clouds of dusk.

It's pure magic.

I know that no matter how hard my little snow globe is shaken,

I'll always remember what it looks like when the pieces settle and the beautiful sky is painted

....again and again.