I am the falling leaf listening gently to the rustle of the wind in the leaves still attached to the tree. Some leaves refusing to go brown and fall, longing to be evergreen like the firs and pines. In the dim half-light I find myself stuck between the tree and the cold ground. The winds vibrates the thin fragile edges of leaves which remember what it once felt like to be green, they remember how the sun would turn their dark green skins into luminous membranes, they remember the cold morning dew slowly running down their dark brown stems. They smiled at the rain and felt alive as the rich muddied water flowed through their veins. But the seperation of autumn feels inevitable and the joy of being high up and green is quickly silenced when the first leaf is broken off by a gust of winter bringing wind. You feel the whole tree gasp and the looming seperation pains even the happiest leaf. And here in slow-motion I fall towards a dark brown forest floor, scattered with the disconnected and dying. The sun about to dissapear behind the world; its last rays of light turn me see through like a dark sepia for the surrounding forest. The stories told of firs and pines, whispers amongst the forest floor of feeling cold snow against your green skin. Oh to be one of those mythical pines and firs.