I am particularly fond of a tree in the Whitney wilderness in the Adirondacks. Not far from a road, that most drive past quickly to get to the destination.

One morning two years ago, I noticed this maple for the first time. Most of the leaves had turned and it was slowly beginning to lose them. I counted seven, flying away in the gentle breeze, one after another. I was able to freeze one in frame, mid flight, before it disappeared into the fog, down the lake, and into everything around us. 

As a boy growing up in India, if you had told me this is how I would spend my mornings thousands of miles away in two decades, I would have laughed at your face with teenage spite. But I am thankful it turned out this way. May there be more mornings like this, where I can continue to count everything to nothing.