From the second-floor game room, I have a particularly good view of the western ridge.
The mountains continue their climb to the west. The first color has appeared along the slope, where the beech trees stand among the darker pines. A little amber. Some copper. Enough to distinguish one tree from another at a distance.
I noticed it this morning while opening the windows.
I cannot say precisely when it began.
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I was looking at the same ridge yesterday, and the day before. Yet this morning I found myself standing at the window longer than usual, wondering how much had changed while I was occupied elsewhere.
The chessboard was still on the table behind me, its pieces where I had left them several evenings ago.
I had intended to finish the game.
Instead, I watched the trees.
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There was a time when I considered a quick response a sign of competence.
A question deserved an answer. A disagreement required a position. If someone challenged my judgment, I felt obliged to explain it while the conversation was still warm.
I was not always wrong.
But I was sometimes too early.
I have sometimes found it easier to speak than to sit with what I was feeling. An opinion could arrive fully formed before I had given it much thought. A feeling could carry considerable force in the morning and seem rather different by evening.
I have occasionally answered the first version of something that had not yet finished becoming itself.
A few of those answers cost me more than necessary.
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The ridge has been changing for weeks.
The trees did not wait for my attention, nor did they change together. Some have surrendered their green already. Others will hold it until the first hard frost.
I watched them for a while, trying to remember which trees had changed first.
Sometimes the useful thing is to look again tomorrow.
That is not always easy. There are circumstances in which waiting is its own kind of decision, and others in which delay can do genuine harm.
I have made mistakes on both sides.
But I no longer confuse the ability to answer quickly with the obligation to do so.
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By afternoon, I had returned to the game room. The sun had moved closer to the western trees, and for a moment I wondered whether they had changed again.
I laughed at myself.
The chessboard was exactly as I had left it. There was a move available.
I could see that much.
I closed the window before the evening air cooled the room and left the pieces where they stood.
The ridge will look different in the morning.
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This letter is now part of the Conservatory — those who find one often need another.