Light, this time of year, seems shadowy like the expiring flame of a coal. Forests once again take on that ominous light they retained perpetually during King Arthur’s days. Leaves, as if touched by King Midas, turn red and gold. In solitary walks autumn affects one with a sense of loss and excitement. Falling in ruby showers from the trees, leaves embody more perfectly than anything the charming dreariness of this time of year. Yet seldom does one ask oneself whether leaves feel pain in this parting. For long months of summer one saw them as united with the trees, indeed, their very spirit. When the gusty winds of summer thunderstorms whipped these leaves about, like hair they clung to the branches of their trees. Tousled by summer breezes, they showed their shinning underbellies. Now with so much finality trees betray their leaves, and, in so doing, give the wind what it long wanted. Yes, one fails to ask these leaves whether it hurts to crackle in upon themselves and fall from such a lofty height.