Clouds blaze across the sky, alight with the reflection of the descending sun. The leaf's rustle echoes down the hollow trunk, deep into the ground where memories lie and days wait. Where someone, somewhere realises a tree is calling them.
Because someone, somewhere is always doing something beautiful.
Just not you.
And the leaf flourishes, inflating.
So the hidden valleys enclosed in the leaf become chasms; filled with rushing water and all things good. Then, in no time at all, the gaping abyss becomes a little less gaping and all things good flow to another leaf. One who needs them more.
And the leaf is left hanging upside down in a space it thought it knew back to front. And the days become dimmer and the nights become longer until one day. It's gone.
Falling.
Falling.
Never stopping.
Until suddenly, you do. And you're the newest layer of a growing tribute to Autumn. Then you're gone, only the memory of an echo where dreams rest. And soon you won't even be that.
Just like us.
But somewhere, someone is doing something beautiful.
Just not us.