I coasted through the cacophonous spectacle of the changing leaves. The Pennsylvania portion of Interstate 84 carried me East. The shifting colors brought to mind a conductor’s baton, the low waving queuing the bass red foliage to begin the movement.
I wondered how the changing season would sound in concert, despite the amphitheater mountains that surrounded me. The vibrato tones, twanging strings, the percussion laying down nature’s heartbeat set against the whistling wind.
I followed the rhythm of the road. Crescendo and downbeat carried my tires through a silent chorus of trees. The rising melody of asphalt and rubber thumped in my chest, and the baton rose call for the firs to shed. A drum of rain drops began to play its part on my car.
A hanging cloud by no means meant that the concert was coming to a close. Only that it would be a more dramatic piece than I thought. Instead of a soothing ambient lullaby, I would hear the hero’s journey and triumph as I made my way home.