I find pleasure in revisiting an autumn reflection I wrote as the finish line to completing my manuscript for “The Last Hoffman” drew near. The forest is everything. But it’s even sweeter with Walt Whitman’s verses in hand.
I recently pushed away from my desk in favour of a walk in the forest with Whitman. The deadline to finish my novel looms, but a part of me called out the restorative time in nature. The October air was cool against my cheek that day and the earthy smell of fallen leaves ever present. The sumacs had turned blood red and the poplar leaves became shimmering coins against the sky.
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