Two years ago, on the way to the funeral of a dear friend, I stopped to spend a quiet moment on one of my favorite trails in Prairie Creek Redwoods Park. While I got out of the car feeling a little fragile about impermanence, I found myself physically responding to the wood's colors and falling leaves with a leaping heart. I wrote the following poem as I walked on the trail there, but the experience itself and the poem rushed back to mind as I painted this orchard's yellows and tried to capture the idea of the ephemeral tracks between its rows, the blur of branches as one drives so quickly by.