Last Dawn – soft light, still air, season’s ending.
Final day of November, and the last leaves have fallen. The tree stands alone now, bare, resolute, and quietly magnificent—its silhouette etched against a sky that blushes with the first light of dawn. Mist drapes the landscape in soft veils, muting the edges of the world, inviting stillness.
We stood quietly as the sun rose behind the mist, wrapped in gold, the morning full of quiet. There was no wind, no birdsong—only the hush of the season shifting. The air held a kind of reverence, as if nature itself paused to mark the moment. Even Ruby, usually restless at first light, stood still beside me, nose lifted to the breeze, sensing something special in the silence.
The tree, stripped of its autumn glory, seemed not diminished but distilled—its form clearer, its presence more profound. It held the memory of seasons past and the promise of those to come. Around it, the grasses bowed under frost, and the fog curled like breath across the fields.
This was not just the end of a month, but a threshold. A quiet farewell to colour and abundance, and a gentle step into winter’s embrace. The light, though pale, carried warmth—not of temperature, but of grace. It gilded the mist, the bark, the waiting earth.
In that moment, everything felt suspended. The world was neither asleep nor awake, but somewhere in between—dreaming, perhaps. And we, too, stood in that dream, held by the hush, the gold, and the quiet companionship of a single tree.
Final day of November, and the last leaves have fallen. The tree stands alone now, bare, resolute, and quietly magnificent—its silhouette etched against a sky that blushes with the first light of dawn. Mist drapes the landscape in soft veils, muting the edges of the world, inviting stillness.
We stood quietly as the sun rose behind the mist, wrapped in gold, the morning full of quiet. There was no wind, no birdsong—only the hush of the season shifting. The air held a kind of reverence, as if nature itself paused to mark the moment. Even Ruby, usually restless at first light, stood still beside me, nose lifted to the breeze, sensing something special in the silence.
The tree, stripped of its autumn glory, seemed not diminished but distilled—its form clearer, its presence more profound. It held the memory of seasons past and the promise of those to come. Around it, the grasses bowed under frost, and the fog curled like breath across the fields.
This was not just the end of a month, but a threshold. A quiet farewell to colour and abundance, and a gentle step into winter’s embrace. The light, though pale, carried warmth—not of temperature, but of grace. It gilded the mist, the bark, the waiting earth.
In that moment, everything felt suspended. The world was neither asleep nor awake, but somewhere in between—dreaming, perhaps. And we, too, stood in that dream, held by the hush, the gold, and the quiet companionship of a single tree.