leaf peeper

I stood on a boulder in Vermont after climbing up and down rock after rock to reach the largest one resting in the exact center of the West River. Alone, I watched the water rush on either side of me and I couldn't help but feel the awe caused by sunset in autumn as it raked at severe angles -first across the water, then across the bank, until when perpendicular with the trees, shadows blanketed the lowlands while brilliant sunlight intensified the reds, oranges, yellows and greens of October above the line of the setting sun.

"I'm a peeper," I whispered to myself, and was suddenly reminded of my friend, who loves to do things en masse. The census thrills her (because everybody does it), as do voting day and tax day. On April 15, no matter when she has completed them, she journeys to the post office to deliver her report personally. She waits in line and buys the correct postage. Last year, she anticipated the day for weeks, putting off the responsibility of mailing until the last moment, simply because she wanted the excitement of being there with everyone else. I could hear the disappointment in her voice when she returned to inform me that there wasn't much of a crowd that day.

Unlike my friend, I'm not into mass gatherings and tend to avoid most things with large crowds. But there I was, in Vermont, leaf peeping, like 100s of 1000s of others who wait with anticipation for the colors that life has to offer, and who value the experience so greatly that they are willing to book hotel rooms two years in advance.

I breathed in, surprised by this revelation. "I'm like all of the other peepers." I said, this time my voice a little louder. I looked around from my perch on the giant boulder and breathed out again. "Yet, I'm the only one here."