Hurtling toward chestnut trees spaced like the pews of a great duomo. The wind now weaves between golden leaves. Whispering quick consonants between the branches, borrowing an autumnal aura. Sweet sighs of ripe chestnuts and shed leaves. And here—where the wind steals woodland scents—hides a curiosity. Cloistered by soil, moss, stone, and leaf litter, a thing unseen—a thing quite mysterious—lies in waiting. A thing that sits buried, like old bones.
