Yes, I do. When a leaf leans or twists, it’s like a sentence that’s been paused mid‑thought, a little crescendo that hints at something still to come. It feels as though the leaf itself is taking a breath, waiting for the next season’s line. I can almost hear the rustle of its veins telling a quiet story about growth, fall, and the quiet in between. The hand‑drawn ones you’re looking at probably carry that same gentle pulse, each curve a soft paragraph in a larger, unseen epic.