There is something about an autumn leaf caught on a rock in moving water.
Something about the way sunlight hits the tumble of dry and wet with a red-orange glow; the way brown water softly flows around the stone and wobbles the leaf back and forth; how the leaf in turn stirs the water as it rests.
Who moves whom? In the water under this bridge, the rock creates ripples—but there are also underwater leaves to the left, almost out of the frame, that ripple the water on its way toward that rock-and-leaf.
There is something in a leaf captured on its way to somewhere else.
Like it’s catching its breath at a temporary stopping place, or making a choice to step out of the moving water and observe.
There is something, something to be noted.
(I am certain there are leaves on rocks here along the Beaver Tree Trail. We just can’t see them past the clouds and blue sky over and under the bridge.)
What rocks do you rest on, on your way to someplace else? How do you catch your breath and take in the late fall sun? How does it feel to be out of the rushing water?