08 Where rabbits traipse overgrown paths and foxes flit between leaf masses walks an Artist beneath the trees. Burnt orange hope now molding crunches beneath his boots. “Too damp… too ugly,” he mutters, kicking aside fistfuls which fell onto the path he forages in want of wild inspiration. When he comes to a rock iceberging from the earth, The Artist halts his aimless wander. A glance up to the trees from whence leaves like gold flutter. If only he could touch them before they’re soured by their tumbling descent to earth. “Ah! Of course!” The Artist reaches, cradles a leaf fragment in his palm before it can join the decay beneath his boots. Though cast off to survive the throes of winter— the leaf, caught before becoming yet another dead thing, retains dignity, beauty in his hand. A breeze snatches the leaf into its stream. What once adorned the greatest of trees, can yet reenter that golden haze.
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