A blanket of leaves deceptively shrouds the rocky outcroppings, lending the trail a softer aspect that it might usually have. That is but one of the dangers of the mountain. Or the forest. The trickery is real, the traps are dangerous. Around every corner lurks a new bit of treachery, masked by seemingly-harmless beauty. The irresistible call of the siren.
The stone shifts, solid-seeming but all the more precarious because of it. Slippery wet leaves vie with slippery wet moss for the chance to take one down, and the softness they portray is like the most wispy thread of smoke in the fall air.
Like the leaves, sometimes it’s good to fall, to be ripped from the lofty perch of all that you’ve ever known, to be torn from the only high home you’ve ever had, freed and unbound to begin the fluttering descent.
The danger is real. The wind is wild. The warning is dire.
But to keep to the path is the more dangerous choice.
And so, some of us cross…
{To be continued}
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