THE STORY OF "LISTEN TO THE WIND"
“Autumn is a second spring, when every leaf is a flower,” Albert Camus once wrote. Here was a whole bouquet of luxuriant foliage, dazzling, charming — fall in full bloom. But, like anything truly beautiful, it did not feel the need to reveal itself easily.
I had been roaming through this forest country for days on end, looking for an image that justly captured the awe and silent beauty of plenteous autumn gold. Everywhere I looked, there was yellow, and yet, I couldn’t find what I was looking for. My eyes had seemingly gone blind, overladen, out of focus.
So I sat down to rest, exhausted and deflated, ridden with self-doubt and regret. Right then and there, the softest of breezes set the sea of yellow in front of me in brief motion, like a gentle sigh. I could hear its whisper getting louder, oh sweet sound!, as the bright lights of autumn began to speak to me anew, my vision coming home to me. And there it was, hiding in plain sight, the image I had been searching for all along: a stand of cottonwoods conferring, shyly waiting to show its array of ten thousand exquisite leaves to the world, teaching me a lesson in humility.
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