I guess maybe I’ll have to trust that the images will contain the narrative for a change. I hope it will suffice to say that having a lake to visit regularly is like having a finger on the pulse of the seasons.
None of the other leaves liked Harold because of his pessimistic, apocalyptic attitude. Little did they know that Harold was simply ahead of his time.
I wish I could describe the sound that the leaves make, fluttering in the wind. In much the same way that an infinite number of monkeys sitting at typwriters are said to be able to produce the works of Shakespeare, so too, an infinite number of leaves blowing in a stiff August breeze eventually come up with a pretty competent blues session. (Editor's Note: Scott knows nothing about the Blues.)
Lovely
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