I have been walking this path for quite some time now.
It started in the spring with the path dry, clean of most leafs.
The trees were full and green.
The birds were flying around, singing on occasion, the wind softly whispering among the branches.
I continued to walk this path, summer came and dried out the path.
Dust was my common companion, staining my shoes and pant legs a soft brown.
My coat, hat, and umbrella stayed in my office, resting for the long winter ahead.
Warm air caressed my lungs and made my stride a little lazy.
Fall has arrived with a cool bite.
Previously soft dust is now replaced by hard earth, my footsteps have become hardened.
The trees are becoming bare, shedding their sails, going to sleep.
Leafs have fallen, covering the path with a soft yellow, quieting my footsteps to a whisper.
Those leafs each have a story to tell, common but unique.
This one more brown because it left earlier, this one more hardy, this one broken, this one with parts missing.
Each leaf lies on the ground, waiting to disappear.
Their stories of sun, wind, rain, and those walking by are fading.
They are remembered because I walk among them, remembering the waves and their pictures of times past.
Does the leaf know the effect it had on my life. Does it know I can no longer walk this path without this imprinted picture.
Does it know it will live as long as I; a life far longer than other leafs because I interacted with its life.
What power I have over the memory of these leafs.
Did the leafs shine brighter because I was watching.
How careful should my observations I have been? How careful should I be being observed?