From The House of Edward

Surrounded by Old Trees

The leaves are letting go. Their grip, so tight-fisted in green, is looser now in scarlet and gold and has begun to give way completely. They are tumbling from their lofty perches, en masse. If only their voices were just a bit more audible, one could perhaps hear squeals of delight as they fearlessly slip from their branches and chase each other round the garden in jeweltoned, featherlight flocks. Continuing all the day long, all through the cold November night, seeming to multiply by the thousands each hour upon hour as if bubbling up from the cold ground itself or being thrown down by the fistfuls from the hand of a mischievous angel high up beyond the clouds; an angel amused by her overhead view of us pink-cheeked beings as we scurry and worry in our feeble attempts to contain this ever growing torrent of falling, flying colour. Until we, not as slow to learn as might be supposed, finally lay down our wooden rakes and march towards the waiting warmth of the fire, realizing at last that this uncontrollable, technicolour horde is perhaps meant as a gift best enjoyed, with hot chocolate in hand and dogs snuggled beside us, from a soft chair by the window.
Oh, let them fall.