The Wood is just in the midst to closing its eyes, breathing its final whispers among the twig-attached tangerine lisps of leaves. Every moment should be like this, the final peaceful moments of sleep. Blissfully quiet, the stillness so thick that to sup upon it would be downing maple syrup sweet, drowzy, luscious.

The Wind brushes past, scintillating upon the tips of leaves and tired branches. They leave, fluttering to the ground in the millions, a populous migration back down to Earth, after spending half a year in the Heavens. Shush, shush, shush, Apricot Rainfall. You want to run through it, have it graze past your face, swing about in its glory, and let it just pour down on you. All of this orange are the last remembrances of fire the months before.

Yet every day should be like this, insouciant harmonious weather. Cold fire that doesn't burn, picturesque scenery that doesn't blind, instead imprinting themselves upon memory as if the perfect day had come at last.

Don't break, my Fall.