This writing assignment had me sitting in the midst of a 10-acre oak forest listening to the falling leaves.
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“It is quiet here. But the forest has its own language. A light wind rustles the topmost leaves and moves the woods in a near-silent unison. Falling leaves pause on the breeze and float to the ground like snowflakes. They touch the ground as if light footsteps in the distance. This is a place of what was. Some of its stately trees were saplings before America had elected two presidents, before settlers cleared the land.”