Perhaps not the invasive chop of the helicopter passing overhead and drowning out the pelt (so much like gentle rain) of leaves. Maybe a slow lumbering vibration that causes him to cock his tiny head and reassume his stillness - tenser now than when we first came out here, gentled by the colors of autumn - a yellow yellow elm, a sky the blue of kings. And warm, too. The sound wanes now. He glides closer down the old stone wall. His markings are winter white and worn gray. The day is casting long shadows.