Two leafs that flapped in the wind were tethered by the tip of a tree branch, in one morning.
I saw a Cycad Blue on another tip in another morning.
I wanted to think as normal as you do, as though nothing had happened, as in the eyes of other hikers.
But it was Sunday, a day to switch off my mind again; it was so silent that I heard a story about leafs.
They were butterflies when leafs withered.
They were butterflies when leafs withered.