I Take Note Byron Hoot Now, there is gold on the ground, the curled, foiled beauty of shapes no hand can make, the veined artistry of fallen leaves in the perfection of release from trees. There’s a grace in knowing how to let go, a two-step act of letting go and going to and in-between the air, some call the winds of destiny. A word not too strong for falling. A word as true as it has ever been. And the gold that turns to decay to feed again the trees and the leaves and the falling. I take note of what I see.