Falling as it ripens, the horse chestnut plunks to the pavement and tap dances in the dirt, free from its spine-covered coat. The spikey husk lies open, its prickly casing, nature’s medieval mace, not yet crumbling into dust. The child in me bends down to pick up a shiny russet nut and then again and again, packing my pockets with their mahogany glossiness, their handsome enamel gleam. Sheltering one warmly in my palm, I hold its glow and stare back at the buckeyes still on the ground with their solid polished faces. But I am not fooled. Those faces hide dull-colored scars that belie their perfection. I move along the road, reminded once again, that the gleam and the dull are two sides of the same whole. I cannot have one without the other. I gather them both.