When we walked into the woods on the hot early September afternoon, we passed through a field of leaning yellow goldenrod that smelled of the ripeness of hay.  A patch of grasses lay flattened, a bed for some deer perhaps?  The sound of insects visiting flowers as efficiently as possible surrounded us and I ran my hands over the soft clusters of golden flowers that were at shoulder height on either side of the path.  As we entered the woods we left the light behind.  I felt my feet sink into the soft earth on the banks of centennial brook.  The scent of the pine grove reminded me what part of the country I was in, and the silence of the woods was broken only by the snapping of twigs underneath our feet.  Centennial!