And yet, in that silence, there was no sadness. There was only a heavy, distinct purpose.
Winter was coming, yes. The white shroud and the iron frost were marching down from the north. But autumn was the shield. It was the gentle buffer, the slow dimming of the lights so that the darkness wouldn't blind us. It was the season of putting things in order, of closing the accounts, of saying the long goodbye. what is the autumn season
A hush fell over the valley. The raucous songs of the robins were gone. The cicadas had long since finished their deafening violins. The silence was profound, broken only by the skitter of dry leaves across the pavement—a sound like dry bones rattling. And yet, in that silence, there was no sadness
High in the canopy of the ancient oak, a tiny layer of cells—the abscission zone—began to swell. It was a gentle act of severance, a slow closing of the door between the branch and the leaf. The green chlorophyll, the engine of summer, began to starve and fade. And as the green retreated, the truth of the leaf was finally revealed. The white shroud and the iron frost were