One fallen leaf cannot replace the beauty of autumn.
My flight from
The street here is lined with tall stands of sycamore. There seems to be no autumn in the city - not like what we have in the Northeast. Even though, a littering of browned and brittle leaves huddle together on the sides of the walkways, as is to hide from the tromping feet of fellow passerbys.
Unconsciously through a trailing pile of leaves.
Crunch, whoosh, crunch.
It was the same sound my feet would make through the wooded trails behind my house on a cool October day. I can easily count it as one of my favorite sounds in the world. The sweet scent of soil mixed with red maple, sweet birch, and glistening inky caps would fill my lungs with each passing step. If I were lucky, I would find a big yellow sugar maple leaf to take home with me, and press it between the pages of my old Rodale herb book.
The extra day in Paris was worth it, if only for just that memory.