Another year has passed, and the smell of fall is once more palpable.
Here a leaf, there a leaf, the weaker of the leaves give in to the first chill of fall, and boast of their first rights to claim a spot on the ground. They fall in silent agreement that they will meet another kind of use.
They will claim their very own space over a twig, an acorn, or some may dare to fall into a stream, and end up, God knows where. Ah, how I am jealous of a leaf who lives with such faith, not knowing what tomorrow may bring.
But the leaves elder brethren cling steadfast to the branches above, for they know the first cold snap is but a tease, and the young ones fell prey to the bait, while they remain, resolute of mind. The colours! They want to see their very change.
They began as a young bud, weathering the early attacks of storm and…
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