I let the nutty flavor of Colombian coffee with a hint of cream and sugar linger on my tongue after I sip it. The mug containing it warms my hands as I take a happy step toward the scene. Dried, curled leaves drift silently toward the ground, light as feathers, in a delicate dance of death. They are remarkably fragile underfoot, crackling as I bend and break their thin frames, like the flakes of a croissant.

By the end of today I will say to myself: “Why did I have to climb so high?” For my ambition will end in stinging blisters and aching arches as I descend this mountain; but for now, I ignore the warning voice that tells of temperance, and I rise. I rise to where the sky is wide as the sea, where birds fly below me and treetops—speckled with every shade of autumn—look like shrubbery. Here, I can see my mortality in the treacherous edge of the cliff, and my spirit in the hazy blue horizon. We are both fleeting, yet forever.