Few leaves remain on oak trees in late autumn, and the lack of foliage reveals the trees’ exquisite structure. I stand at the base of a bur oak tree and look up, imagining a squirrel’s point of view as it runs vertically up the trunk. The tree is a gnarly specimen with rough bark and angular branches that twist and turn in all sorts of directions.

A large shape was on top of the otherwise thin and angular branch and looked slightly out of place. But it was not out of place at all. It was an owl.

It was early evening when I strolled through a small orchard. Here and there among fruiting trees were pairs of orange wings edged with black veining and white dots fluttering against the dimming sky. These wings belonged to monarch butterflies, and they appeared everywhere I turned.