You wonder how these things begin.Well, this begins with a glen.It begins with a season,which, for want of a better word, we might as well call September.It begins with a forest,where the woodchucks woo and leaves wax green,and vines and twine like lovers.Try to see it, not with your eyes, for they are wise,but see it with your ears,the cool, green breathing of the leaves,and hear it with the inside of your hand,the soundless sound of shadows flicking light.Celebrate sensation.Recall that secret place.You've been there. You remember.That special place,where once, just once in your crowded, sunlit lifetime,you hid away in shadows from the tyranny of time.That spot beside the clover,where someone's hand held your hand,and love was sweeter than the berries or the honeyor the stinging taste of mint.It is September,before a rainfall,a perfect time to be in love.