The winds are whispering in their glorious soft tones of breath. The repentant grasses of summer are still, awaiting the autumnal glories to arrive. Each patch growing this way and that in conglomerations of no direction.
The path is worn beneath my feet. The loose gravel churned underfoot a hundred thousand times.
In the trees above my head birds are chirping their singular melodies. I am content in this plain delicious evening, taking in all the beauties of nature, as my boots churn the familiar paths once more.