The breeze whistled a pleasant tune as it whisked through the tree. A small quintet of acorns disturbed from their place by the gallivanting wind, provided percussion as they tumbled down the branches. Leaves fluttered playfully along to the tune, clapping against each other in rapt approval.

A murder of crows flew off into the distance, signaled by nature’s music that it was time to change venue. They flew into a backdrop of orange and maroon bathing the entirety of the skyline; one that was broken by the silhouette of a farm house standing tall upon a grassy hill flanked by groupings of dusk darkened trees.

Sitting alone in front of the farm house, a circular mound of stones protrudes from the ground. The remnants of a time before indoor plumbing, its walls had been crumbling from neglect. As the wind whisked by the forgotten watering hole, a cloud of dust danced in joy before falling to rest in exhaustion.

I placed my head under the focusing cloth, depressed the shutter, and captured the moment forever.