Sycamore Tryst

The Sycamore leaves. Always whispering, always sighing. Sometimes lively, sometimes softly. If she listens with her soul ears more than her bodily ears, they share their secrets.

August, a month with two seasons in it.

The air is cooler and fresher. The sometimes golden sun still echoes Summer but it hangs lower in the sky making the shadows reach further. The big, old oak and sycamore trees cast long shapes across the windy grass. Their leaves are hinting, tinting yellow, red and brown. The swallows are gathering and preparing for their long journey. Gentle reminders of Autumn.