It's September in New England, and already you begin to notice the little seasonal changes. The daily high temperatures are easing downward slowly, and the evening seems to come too soon. Also, there is a subtle aural transformation going on. Something is happening to the sound of the leaves. Till now it's been a gentle rustling, a background whisper, steadily there even though mostly unnoticed. But that sound is changing now, turning gradually from a whisper to a rattle, more pronounced each day. And we all know of course that, all too soon, even this sound will be replaced, once every leaf has been shorn from its branch, with nothing more than a low breathy whistling, almost inaudible. That's when distant sounds--say, a carhorn three streets away, or a barking dog, far across the broad park--take on a new and startling vividness, like the black stroke of a calligrapher, stark and beautiful against its blank field. But I speak in anticipation now. I hear it coming. I take note of the subtle signs, encroaching the fringes of my aural consciousness. I hear it, and though it foreshadows winter, I savor the sound of it. Thank you, Father, for the beauty of your creation is forever changing, and yet it is always good.