The experienced road exhales slowly, thoroughly mixing its dusty breath with the arriving dusk. The single breath does not belong to the kind that one may sometimes find clinging to a mirror, a windowpane, or floating in the air during wintertime. Nor does it belong to the kind of breaths that, when released, externalize human astonishment, dread, or any other emotion; but the dusty breath that moves through the evening is of the dancing kind, and it has taken the fall with its many colors as its partner.

A small leaf breaks loose from the dancing foliage, and it hurries further down the road where a ragged board becomes its resting place. The board is also resting, carried by two boulders just large enough not to budge when weather, wind and other forces occasionally try to move them.

The soil on which the boulders reside is soft enough for small fingers to penetrate and build trenches in during the warmer seasons of the year, and it gives shelter to various kinds of rodents, beetles, worms and other creatures that a pair of attentive eyes can sometimes catch sight of. An attentive nose will also be able to detect a subtle scent in the air, namely that of damp leaves in harmony with single notes of asphalt rising from the road.

Come winter, when the leaves have stopped dancing, a frosty serenity will take their place. Winter will spread until it covers the soil, the road, the boulders and the old board. The frost will find its way upwards, and it will climb the large oak trees that are silently guarding the air above the scene, all of them lined up in a still parade.

A thick multi-layered rug in various colors covers the ground underneath the trees. Leaves have been falling from the treetops for a long time, and the ones closest to the soil are slowly turning brown while they molder into the dirt. The other layers of the natural patchwork vary between different shades of yellow, red, orange and even green where summer is lingering with its warming touch.

If you were to sit down on the wooden board during wintertime and glance up toward the sky you would find it streaked with the dark contours of branches and twigs. Now the contours are hidden behind a paper-thin canopy of warm colors, as fall has not entirely flown by.

Just behind the park lies an old house, which is separated from the scene by a wooden fence. The fence has lived to see the oak trees grow taller and taller with time, while the trees have seen the fence go from straight and brightly yellow, to crooked and flaking grey. One of the boards in the fence has fallen to the ground and left a narrow gap that now serves as a convenient passage for small paws that are looking to explore the area.

Passers-by who let their feet follow the asphalt road while being watched from above by the oak trees will be able to catch a glimpse of dark cellar windows through the fence, and white windowsills against a light yellow facade if they glance above it; however, the building has stood there for so long that only an inconsiderable amount of people actually rest their gaze upon it as they walk by. In the backyard, there is a set of swings that you can see from the other side of the fence, and plastic children’s toys usually lie scattered around the lawn. Sometimes a small toy spade or bucket escapes the garden and ends up lying in the park where it slowly gets devoured by nature with time.

Not only does the house serve the purpose of shelter for its inhabitants, but it also screens off the park from a trafficked road that is located on the other side of the building.

Although the house is guarding the park with uttermost care, it sometimes happens that little sounds of traffic sneak past the building, around its corners, through the broken fence, and into the park. Having entered the area, the sounds intertwine with the rustle of leaves and the crunch of pedestrian shoe soles sliding over pebble-strewn asphalt. Occasionally the wind decides to join in by humming its discreet tune, and it gets accompanied by chirping birds, or children that are loudly engaging in outdoor activities.

In the back of the park, side-by-side with the fence, a tiny creek is purling. The water dries up during summertime, leaving nothing but dust where it usually flows. In the fall, the humble stream of water is covered by leaves, making it a traitorous trap for eager feet that come kicking through the vegetation without rubber boots. Rocks that vary in both size and color border the creek. Some of them are so evenly sculpted that they resemble marbles, while others are rough-hewn and bear the appearance of large mountain trolls, especially just before the nightfall, when twilight hides all the details that broad daylight normally reveal. The trolls are coated in dark-green moss that is soft enough to comfortably sit down on, and thick enough to fit all of the small insects that dwell within it.

A few steps away from the creek, partly covering an oak stub, an anthill is crawling with activity. The fire ants that live there run back and forth across the park, as they are duty-bound workers. When it gets too cold, the visible activity stops and the ants bide their time until spring chooses to return. From the lookout by the boulder-bench, you can spot the distant movement of the anthill, and although the creek flows by behind you, it can be heard distinctly over the different melodies contained by everyday-life in the park.

On the far side of the park, the asphalt road disappears into a concrete tunnel. The thick, grey walls are hiding narrow passageways behind them, passageways that one who wants to give in to curiosity can squeeze into and pass through only to exit on the other side of the tunnel. The passageways have been filled with graffiti, and the lights are usually broken, making pedestrians hurry their steps during nighttime. People that emerge from the tunnel surface on the road that goes through the park, and neon graffiti and sterile concrete walls get replaced by leafy vegetation.

Regardless of its limited size, the park is often filled with people. Some can be found on the wooden board on top of the boulders, reading, listening to music or quietly watching their surroundings. Others can be spotted running around, throwing leaves at each other, digging trenches in the dirt, or playing tag among the tree trunks. Some prefer to bring their dogs and let them explore the surroundings with eager noses, while others chose to bring their friends instead, just to have someone to talk to in the shade of the trees.

The pedestrians that pass through the park are many, and there are some of them that do not give it so much as a glance as they run by. Others do look around, but are in a hurry to get elsewhere, and do not have the time to slow down. As life in the park progresses the wind keeps on humming its tune, and the oak trees are silently watching.