Nov 3 · 5 min read
In Celebration of Fall
~ moments of detached languor ~

Though highway noises encroach as winds change direction, quiet oak and maple leaves fall like moments of detached languor. Wading through ramparts of ochre and gold — it is late autumn after all, but unseasonably cold — I wander with a tractable pace in the woods: stop at a bend in the brook where horsetails grow, rest on a rotting log: watch and absorb as a piece of dry bread soaks up…

