A picture in 100 words:
Crumbling remnants of crimson autumn drifted damp and dispersed with moss on the creek’s bank. The passing season’s lingering wholeness was evident only by reflection; a maple stretched its limbs down deep into clearing skies.
‘If they keep piling up, they could block the flow,’ Jude noted, indicating where inlet streamed into river. Fallen leaves were abundant there, but even should every leaf above drop, the current would not be dammed. I said so, distantly. Though the world was tranquil and seemed still, I was struck by how very old I felt. Time just kept passing.
And winter was coming.
(Forgive me; couldn’t help it :))