cy-krio

When autumn came our mother would take us down to the lake, where often the mountainside was choked with fog, and a fine drizzle bore down long into the bright evenings. My brother and I would skip stones lazily across the glassy water, listening out for the delightful ‘plunk’ as they dipped beneath the surface. In dim light beneath the forest canopy we would search, clambering over thickets and ducking under branches that snaked across the muddy ground, all for the thrill of finding our prize; a single leaf. Among the thousands that lay strewn across the forest floor, only one could be crowned winner; Perhaps it was large, gran