It was a brisk Winter morning, with the fresh dawn air wrapping the senses tightly and plunging them head first into a cold, swirling pool. I felt the faint droplets of moisture first on my face, then on the wall of my house as I ran my fingers slowly along, appreciating every minute nook and cranny possible, every lost detail to the eventual wears of time, every worn corner. The odd gathering of moss seemed to reach out and grab my fingers, seeking attention from anyone possible. I remember the tactile thrills of nature before, carelessly grabbing the similarly curious branches, fingers slowly pulling away the young leaves, taking them into my palm and rolling them, exploring what tiny nuances they had. Caressing, squeezing, feeling, before gently releasing into the oncoming breeze. A leaf in the breeze. A man’s life. Blowing in the wind.