A withered maple leaf has left its branch and is falling to the ground; its movements resemble those of a butterfly in flight. Isn't it strange? The saddest and deadest of things is yet so like the gayest and most vital of creatures?
There is another alphabet, whispering from every leaf, singing from every river, shimmering from every sky.
Rather than turning over a new leaf, prune your tree so that new leaves continue to blossom.
Only with a leafcan I talk of the forest.
I was drinking in the surroundings: air so crisp you could snap it with your fingers and greens in every lush shade imaginable offset by autumnal flashes of red and yellow.