Wind whistles through the sycamore leaves, shaking each one to it’s very core. The sun contrasts the chilling breeze, as if pouring warm water on a piece of ice. The grass grows green and thick, even as the days grow short, and the air grows cold. There is still life. Leaves blow past me, evidence of lush, ever pervasive life. Water gushes forth from a stream; fish swim in it’s depths, birds bathe on it’s shores. As I look around me, at the trees, the grass, the fish below the water, the flocks of bird overhead, I understand. There are some things yet worth living for.