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Hearing his heartbeat, he crosses the worn wooden threshold of his apartment door and turns right down the sidewalk into the the little spits of mist floating in the sunlight. The speckled painting of fallen leaves coats every surface with fresh wet decay. He walks with intention, nowhere. We watch as he shrinks, sinking into the canvas, until his faded blue jeans are a twig to his damp, golden hair.

9 thoughts on “Crossing

  1. “The speckled painting of fallen leaves.” This is an ideal description. I so enjoyed reading this. I could see the entire scene unfolding.

  2. This is a wonderful description and really catches the moment. It’s also a very good example of the ways in which less can often be more.

  3. Ah! So well said and reminds me of my own experience this past weekend….my lovely wife and I gently walking through the wood over the ancient civil war battleground, crunching (in our case) the very dry leaves under our feet. Thanks, Garnett
    The photo looks like where we were except for the wetness of the leaves.

  4. A twig to his damp golden hair. . . and he reaches up and takes out and sits down on the stairway to look out on the tapestry that lay before him, knowing that he owns the moment and the world.

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