Laurel Hill
It’s that time of the year - mid Autumn. The leaves have turned and once again I feel compelled to go to Laurel Hill. The drive is short, the light is right! I marvel at the leaves, soak in the colors of the ones that still hang on - red, orange, yellow and green. But my thoughts never fail to gravitate to the ones that had succumbed to the pull of the Inevitable. “Which one am I?”, I once wrote of the snowflakes falling in the stillness of a Winter night. “Which one am I?”, I ask again - pondering the leaves.
Laurel Hill
It’s that time of the year - mid Autumn. The leaves have turned and once again I feel compelled to go to Laurel Hill. The drive is short, the light is right! I marvel at the leaves, soak in the colors of the ones that still hang on - red, orange, yellow and green. But my thoughts never fail to gravitate to the ones that had succumbed to the pull of the Inevitable. “Which one am I?”, I once wrote of the snowflakes falling in the stillness of a Winter night. “Which one am I?”, I ask again - pondering the leaves.