A path, through sunlight, through trees. Each and every time I stop and take a picture: it pulls me in, again and again, this quiet, irresistible invitation.
Only a few blue flowers remain, crinkling at the edges. In their place, an abundance of down, soft to the touch, ready to fly, to flee, to fall.
I wonder if there is a word for the gold light of a sunny September morning? Its softness, its thickness, the way it falls and touches, like a parent’s hand, like a kiss.