Late August. Parking spots at the trailhead. Sunrise a little later and unaccompanied by birds. Sunset a little earlier, and bringing the constant background rhythm of the crickets. Still green in the high country, but the profusion of subalpine flowers has dwindled. Here and there the gentian pokes up its head, having saved the deepest hue for last.
And, yes, that Counting Crows album is the best album ever.
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