birds singing and trees creaking.

Saturday morning we (me, Lily and Piper) woke up at the quaint cabin frequented for several decades by my stepfather and his family.  We've been absorbed into that circle over the last few years and look forward to every visit.

Compared to the west, the mountains (some might scoff at that designation) of Pennsylvania appear rather wee.

Short of stature, perhaps, but not of history, not of the human or the natural variety, and I believe their sleepy demeanor is evidence of the aging process, of the march of years that have carved them to their current stooped state and whittled away at any geologic ego.

Take heed all of you tall, vain mountain ranges.  The Appalachians once stood defiantly high as well, but wind and water had their way.  And will with you in time.

On this day, recent heavy late summer rains followed by autumnal temperatures had combined to dapple the region's normal blanket of endless greens with  broad patches of yellows, oranges, reds and every hue and color variation in between.

I stared lovingly and longingly from the small swath of grass behind the cabin that masquerades as yard.  I hadn't realized I was quietly speaking my thoughts aloud.

Lily (5 years old):  Dad?  Dad, are you talking TO the mountains?

Me (38):  Ummm.

Piper (3):  Daddy, mountains cannot talk.

Me:  They, ummm, they do to me.

Piper:  But....

Lily:  Piper, they do.  They do to Daddy.

Piper and Lil locked eyes for a moment and, then, as there was no further comment, the matter was apparently decided and we headed down the path for a day in the woods.

Which is exactly what I and the mountain had been discussing.