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by Eva Campbell


The leaves drift softly down from the sweet gum trees when the mild winds of late November blow. I love to get out and listen to the soft whispering sound. It sounds like a dying year, the leaves falling to their natural grave on the mossy turf beneath.

Where can I go for the winter? To find a warm place to sleep till the leaves begin to grow again, in an effort to begin a new year. A place where a few seeds will touch dirt and form roots. In a short period the roots will send up new tiny trees, as a child grows, to start a new breed of life.

I’m being pushed about the large yard in a big-wheeled chair to see the signs of which I write.

I love autumn, the time of rest when people and any growth take a break. In a short time the new year will begin.

I like to plant seeds in a pan of warm, rich dirt, watch a tiny sprout begin, soon to be a root to feed a new plant.

To look at the mountains in spring is like seeing a pale, thin mist of different shades of green. An oak here has several shapes of leaves. I grew up higher in the mountains and the trees are different, with another shape of leaf.