Jonathan and I round the curve on Skyline Drive. There, high atop the Shenandoah Valley, through branches once clothed in verdant luxury, light like liquid gold pours, so that shafts suspend themselves in every open space like so much glitter thrown to the wind. Trunks ordinarily gray seem lit from within. They shimmer silver, their rough bark edges gilded in transcendent, gleaming glory, a benediction on our impromptu trip.