orange and black for three solid days, remembering Dooger's Little League games and how I planted M&M trees by crushing them in to the dirt behind the dugout with my tennis shoes. A split persimmon flooded with red wax, an orange scarf gets me a long trail of honks like geese going wild, revving it up the hills. And altars with pale lilac parasols. There are no winter folds to tuck all these crowds into, this marigold rush. It's still summer in November, the nights are tricked into staying short, but singed on the edges, with sage and cotton candy.