Jack Choi

The Death of Heart

Crunchy golden leaves dropped gently on the dry soil floor of the Acorn Heaven forest, where acorns fall like hail in august. As I walked above the shriveled sun-baked leaves, I could smell the perishing leaves scents coming slowly into my nose. It wasn’t an unpleasant scent but more of a calm and warm scent that blended well with the reddish-golden colors of the leaves below me. Half-naked trees kept dropping the crispy lifeless leaves covering every acorn that fell early this year.