morning fog at Broadmoor

That morning the fog laid like a great ghost over grass and trees, shrouding the landscape with its wet breath, a kind of ageless voice faint in the air

Spiderwebs hung everywhere, between branches and railings; tiny droplets of water making them obvious, perfect in symmetry and form: waiting in a kind of glistening perfection of silence.

We walked out into the morning, the sun still asleep behind clouds, the air fragrant from night blooms, the small, pointed tracks of deer visible here and there along the path at our feet.  The change in the air quietly ominous; a faint whisper of the long, cold nights ahead.

leaves float gently through moist air,  the yellows and reds releasing their hold on branches that would soon be bare, naked, dark, against gray skies.

Ahead, the path stretched and disappeared into the woods, trees hanging in a canopy over the well-trodden ground, now littered with leaves like flames fallen from the sky

Tomorrow the sun will set a little earlier, and change will come to us, whether we ask for it or not.

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