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In the midst of rusty reds, burnt oranges and golden yellows, it's the green leaves I can't stop thinking about. The unchanged ones--the ones holding on until the last minute--resistant to trendy shifts, draped in drab garb, waiting.

Waiting for others to have their moment first, for bare branches to open around them, for cooler winds to ignite their senses, for time to dangle longer, for the chance to move slowly, to think longer, to speak without all the noise, to observe, to learn, and to gather the courage to fly.

The rusty reds, the burnt oranges and the golden yellows get the attention. All sorts of people converge in the mountains to admire their peaking colors. Passengers gaze out their windows along northern highways, pre-schoolers tape fallen treasures on classroom walls. 

But it's the green ones we really should watch. 

The ones that teach us about patience.

The ones that remind us to be ourselves.

The ones that give us our last bit of hope--our last flare of color--before gray skies bleed through empty branches and blankets of snow cover the dark green blades of grass.