Maybe it’s peaches, maybe it’s pumpkin pie, maybe it’s the light slanting through the amber necklace a kind fisherman gave me, maybe it’s celestial, maybe it’s my hunger for oranges when I can’t eat oranges. Does a long orange season foretell a long white winter? My partner’s beard was once orange. I hear the aspen leaves talking, their little shimmy. I’ve walked the same path through the woods, watching the leaves turn from green, to yellow, to gold, to orange, to the ground. The chokecherry and the aspens on the south side of the house are bare now. We can watch the pink sunset. The bear and I, the moose and I, can see each other. There’s nowhere to hide. I start to feel naked, the baring of the trees, hunting for my long underwear. I had a white car once, spun off the road into a white field. No one saw me. I feel like I’m getting at something but I’m not quite there. I’m just letting the orange in me talk.