It was autumn, the leaves soft gold and rust red, a steady set of footsteps crunching the discarded leaves the wind of a soft song and touch lifting the spirits of the forest and all life within. Rustling and blowing the leaves, the wind continues the crunch of leaves under footfall louder as they increase in sets, one, two, four, eight continuing lines of steps and heavy footfalls crushing the beauty of the autumn evening. The music of the forest is now deafened and drowned by the sounds of marching, soldiers who have a sense of duty and no time for the breathtaking silence of the fall air. What a disappointment the spoiling of the ground and trees imprinted by boots and discarded moments this, is a sad moment that the forest cannot bear and will not continue. The once rusted and golden leaves crushed by the heavy fall of the foot now rise the wind of which was a soft kiss now lashes like a whip leaves the teeth and steadily the footfalls cease eight, four, two, one, the forest is at rest once more the whip crinkling through the falling blades of gold and rust.

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