When I was a kid, we lived within an easy walk of a forest. An unkempt sort of forest, sort of an orphan. There were hills, including a great one for sledding, a desultory creek, and some permanently damp places full of frogs. What may have been an abandoned Christmas Tree farm. Great for kids.

There was a hill, what passed for a hill, a rise or swell that overlooked that creek. The hill was covered with maple trees mostly 15 to 25 feet high. One year, one day, probably in my late teens, I found they had all turned bright yellow at once. It was a bright day, and I got a glimpse of what Tolkien may have meant by “singing gold.”