Leaves have such a great texture to them. Pictures don’t do the reality of leaves justice. They don’t communicate the quiet rustle of them, the soft way they rot all over the lawns and sidewalks of the neighbourhoods. The way they fall, either in bunches in a strong wind, or solo on a quiet afternoon, surprising a walker.
They carpet the back streets and the lawns, and as I powerwalk and run along the sidewalks and look over them, I think, “In some way this neighbourhood is still a little bit like the forest it once was.”