A child ran through the grove, kicking up a swirl of crimson and amber. Her laugh scattered the leaves higher into the air, where for a moment they became a second canopy—a fleeting, upside-down autumn. Then they settled again, carpeting the earth in a patchwork of seasons past.
This was not death, I realized. It was trust. The trees were loosening their hold on everything they had made in summer—every broad leaf that had drunk the sun, every green promise—because they knew something we forget: that letting go is not a failure, but a preparation. The bare branches, stark against the gray, were not empty. They were resting. They were remembering how to be still. trees shed their leaves in which season
I stood at the edge of the birch grove, collar turned against a sky the color of old pewter. The first leaves fell not with urgency, but with the slow deliberation of a letter slipped under a door. A single yellow coin spiraled past my cheek, landing on the damp moss without a sound. A child ran through the grove, kicking up
In the season of , when the world holds its breath before winter, the trees begin their quiet performance. This was not death, I realized