As we walk along, the dry leaves crunch under our feet. Frequently, a new crimson, gold, or russet leaf will come twirling down softly as a breath of wind caresses the ones still left clinging to the strong, solid branches. As they hit the ground, they softly crinkle with those that have found their way there first.
While the leaves are making their yearly change from green to a dazzling array of rich color, the beans in the fields are starting to turn dry and brown. Their soft rattling signals that they are almost ready to be harvested. Soon the noise of the combine will echo through the woods as the field at its edge is stripped bare of the produce.
The sound of tranquil quiet resounds. It feels as if no human noises can penetrate the sounds of nature. The things unheard, leaves relinquishing their grasp, animals hiding in the underbrush, are content to stay as they are. Unnoticed by us intruders, not thought of unless something triggers the memory of them.
We finish our walk as birds sing and squirrels frolic from tree to tree.
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