He loved how the sweet gums, tall and straight, caught the morning sun, painting the landscape crimson and yellow, the seed balls swinging festively on every twig, and how the dew glimmered on the first light, and the rays slashed across the porch of a morning.
Soon the green would vanish except for the cedars and the pines and the magnolias. That was not unsettling to Isaac, for it would then be possible for him to see through the canebrake to the creek beyond. The blue skies over Slate Springs would stay the same and the dew would continue to glisten like gold and silver on the dried leaves and pine needles. And if winter allowed an inch of snow to fall, his world would sparkle like slithers of diamonds. Every season had its splendid advantage and from front porch or back or from the myriad panes on every side or even from the dogtrot he would sit and bask in the blessings of each, calling them by name—winter, spring, summer and best of all—autumn.
From Isaac's House
Jane B. Gaddy