Just the other day. Yellow.  As we walked through a wet forest toward an unknown place. Stop hikers and ask how far? Embarrassed after they pass.  We’re mountain climbers. Trail builders.  

“When was the last time we did that?” my husband asks. “How far to the lake?” But we are tired after a late night. Hungry. Chilled.

Yellow. The color of sun. Of spring. Of glacier lilies.  Release from winter’s long hold is yellow.  Daffodils. Daisies.  Of flowers turned to fruit. Lemons.  Corn.  Yellow too, the color of aged paper, old teeth, autumn leaves.  Yellow a feature of stars in their burning light.  Rising. Falling.

Yellow in the beginning, the middle, the end.  

We walk a little further under the dripping conifers. Toward tree line. All the while hoping for a glimpse of sun. Instead, a cold wind blows. Fog floats through the branches.

Then we see the meadow. First one. Two.  Then so many. Smallish and ringed by trees. With tiny tarns and ponds and a meandering creek. And finally, the lake.  All the grasses, the sedges, dying. They turn a fiery yellow that leans into orange.  We cannot help but wander out. We forget about sun or lunch. I am not saying we go lost or get turned around or anything much, only that we go into the yellow. Together. Alone. Across the fading blaze, to the trees on the far side. To the place where the yellow ends.