Here are the emerald rooms we remember, here are carpets of sun and the quick glint of a warbler’s yellow throat. Here you are, steps ahead of me on the trail, wearing that sweater you’ve had since college, its color like a high mountain stream that’s neither silver nor blue but somehow both. Here are windflowers, their bright sparks of blossom flung upward, here are mosses and lichens sighing beneath us in ways we would never have noticed when we were young. Let’s lie here a while, under these pillars of cedar and fir. Like candles lit by sky, they give off so much light.