Frost Tinged Sycamore Leaf, Sunrise, Late Autumn

One of the first frosts of late autumn settled in during the night. I awoke to a tantalizing dawn, a stirring of sunrise colors. Out of the house I went, to see what would be seen.

The hay meadow was a frozen network of flowing lines and patterns. I followed it down toward the fence corner. I almost made it there when the sun rose above the distant trees along the creek and illuminated a downed, brown, frost tinged sycamore leaf.

It was just a brown dead leaf, curled with dryness, resting where it had alighted. How long ago? From which tree? The nearest sycamore was a fair piece away from this spot. Had it blown straight here on a really windy day (or night), or had it fallen from its twig and later been scooped up by the winds and landed here, in this slot between grasses in this meadow?

I don't know, and neither do you. It's fascinating to ponder. Each moment in time, each situation. Nature beckons eternally.

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