When the trees turn to gold and the leaves fall silently to the ground,
I forget about growing old as I watch the nimble deer tiptoe through
the woods without making a sound.
I walk quietly down the footpath the crisp air caress's my face, The branches
of the trees welcome me with their leafy embrace.
The twisting vines comb thorough my hair and the haughty little quail struts
down the trail as if I were not there.
The tiny grey squirrel scurries in search of food
Becoming a part of my natural mood.
I looked up at the sky dark clouds beckoned me and the trees seem to sigh.