Vignette by Fred Leeds
Morning, autumn by the lake. Cushions of leaves encircle the trees. The birds in the trees begin to sing. It is a sound with which the ears of the heart are already familiar. The song is a part of nature’s also human tune. While the notes are recognizable as nature’s ancient code, I must translate them for the doubtful modern mind.
The leaves beside the trees rustle as the wind ruffles the lake. I take up my pen and write what you have just read.
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