Every Fall

The brittle leave are clacking, clattering, chattering, speaking to one another of snow. They speak quickly, urged by the north wind, scurrying to finish their chores. Their conversation ebbs and flows, rising on the wind gusts.
Their words are the same as last year.They are the same every year. From gold-green to gold to the color of earth, until finally they become the earth, sleeping through the winter.

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The earth is damp and fragrant, soft and forgiving. The color of the fallen leaves blends into a mosaic on the ground. Yes, the very ground is as if Monet had chosen each piece, posed each leaf in a grand masterpiece.

 * * * * * *

It is good.

Photo by Sue Ann Seel