It was an calm day, and John Connors found himself resting at the side of a large oak tree, admiring the beauty of the woods that surrounded him.
The sunless sky covered the woods over the treetops which created a canopy over his head. The crimson and auburn foliage was a magnificent sight as this was the season when the leaves had no more strength left to hold themselves onto the branch of a tree. It was the falling season. There was a gentle breeze, creating the single sound of rustling leaves. The leaves made a patchwork quilt effect on the ground that they lay upon. Layers upon layers of autumn leaves lay upon the ground along with pine needles and other flora creating a thick springy carpet to walk on.
In the distance the trail that John Connors had left behind was no longer visible; a thick velvet mist was beginning to creep in encompassing the footsteps and shrouding them from human eyes. Lining the path were tall tress which stood hand in hand with one another, living their lives peacefully in the still of the forest. They seemed to be held down, giving a silent rhapsody of joy and grieving over their lost leaves.
The wind was whistling with a hollow undertone, carrying the dampness with it, while playing games with the fallen leaves, swirling them around in the air and then dropping them like a pack of cards, teasing them like the bully in the playground.
Along the way fallen timber accompanied thickets of weeds. A lazy mist hazed the vision of any living object, making the horizon seem like one from a story book. The area was imperturbable, as if it was keeping a secret hidden deep within itself.
The sunless sky covered the woods over the treetops which created a canopy over his head. The crimson and auburn foliage was a magnificent sight as this was the season when the leaves had no more strength left to hold themselves onto the branch of a tree. It was the falling season. There was a gentle breeze, creating the single sound of rustling leaves. The leaves made a patchwork quilt effect on the ground that they lay upon. Layers upon layers of autumn leaves lay upon the ground along with pine needles and other flora creating a thick springy carpet to walk on.
In the distance the trail that John Connors had left behind was no longer visible; a thick velvet mist was beginning to creep in encompassing the footsteps and shrouding them from human eyes. Lining the path were tall tress which stood hand in hand with one another, living their lives peacefully in the still of the forest. They seemed to be held down, giving a silent rhapsody of joy and grieving over their lost leaves.
The wind was whistling with a hollow undertone, carrying the dampness with it, while playing games with the fallen leaves, swirling them around in the air and then dropping them like a pack of cards, teasing them like the bully in the playground.
Along the way fallen timber accompanied thickets of weeds. A lazy mist hazed the vision of any living object, making the horizon seem like one from a story book. The area was imperturbable, as if it was keeping a secret hidden deep within itself.
