Annie Dillard said that each day is a god.

The god of today is a child, looking out the window at November and rushing to be let out, to touch and crackle along sidewalks, examine fallen pumpkins, to twitter.

There is a fusion of life and death in this day's morning, as there is in all mornings when the god is young and the sun still trying to rise, and we praise him into our darker coffees, with our thicker sweaters we sing hosanna. We live among the dead leaves. We live and we breathe until our lungs hurt. We live and think this child god is forever, or ages as slowly as we do, we live like afternoon will never come. We love autumn in the freshest of ways.

But we breathe in and forget, we breathe out and the air isn't quite as fresh, already, we feel complacent, settled, bored, ready for the first snow to come this evening and melt greenly tomorrow morning.

We confuse god for Thomas Kincaid, and exchange that which is beautiful for that which is syrupy, picturesque, and gilded. I would rather eat a grainy apple than a golden one, all cold and metallic-- rock salt between my teeth. May November 2nd never come.