Sometimes the wordiness has to come out. I feel like a scare-crow stuffed to bursting with the excellent Aeschylus, Stanley Fish's How to Write a Sentence, Owl City, all sorts of art and music, and the ridiculous blue that is vaulted over the world in October, drenched in apple cider sunlight. This is my explosion.
(Only read this if you're willing to stumble through many-lined sentences and trip through tipsily tall towers of piled-up phrases.)
Smooth, silver-grey trunks stood tall in two impossibly straight rows lining her path, sentinels, arms upraised, dropping leaves to quicken in flickering flight, butterfly candle-flames, and land with tiny whisper-breaths upon a field of fallen comrades.
She walked, slowly, silent in her soul, drawing into her lungs the autumn air like cool water, drinking the apple cider sunlight with her eyes, ears inhaling the fresh-bread crunch of her footsteps meeting leaves.
She stepped onward, a cloaked figure, passing in and through and out of the sentinel-trees' shadows that striped the sun with shade just as a row-full of windows pierce the walled-in darkness of a passageway with light shed like shadows.
On, on went the hush-fallen road of leaves; on went its lone traveler to be seen.