slow down. you move too fast.

I kicked through leaves today.

Just a small pile—strewn along the curb so that I could keep one foot up on the curb and one foot swinging through the leaves.

Step, kick.

Step, kick.

It was a rhythm that reminded me to slow down.

Slow down; you move too fast. Got to make this moment last now.

Slow down and see the small changes in the day around you.

Like on my drive to and from work. In the morning, I try to take mental snapshots of the trees that are just starting to change.

Snap: that one on Lorraine has one bunch of red. Just at the top, slightly to the right.

When I drive home, eight or so hours later, I try to see if more fall color has seeped into the leaves.

Is there more red? Is there any yellow? Orange?

If I simply sped past, focused on the next, I would miss these little changes.

I would, one day, be on a drive home from work—one of those days when the light filters just right and the blue of the sky is like a child's drawing—and I would realize, with a twinge of sadness, that most of the leaves had already changed.

Without me seeing it, really seeing it.

So as I kicked through leaves this morning and breathed in the almost-fall air {brisk, slightly, with a hint of humid memory}, I reminded myself to slow down.

Step, kick.

Step, kick.