The wind is a constant presence, picking up in sudden gusts asking the trees to rustle along. The leaves on the trees have lost their last shade of green and turned into yellow, red or pink, the colours of parting. With every assertive push of the wind, they float out of the comfort of the branches twirling their way down to their brothers who lie strewn at the feet of their creators. They form a river of colours as the ruthless cold wind now makes them hurry along the road forming a red wave here and a yellow whirlpool there. The streets and lanes are blissfully deserted on a cloudy Sunday afternoon as I wander them but for the fallen leaves that run alongside me. They said fall in New England is beautiful but they never hinted that it would be so indescribably beautiful.
I wonder how can death be such a beautiful thing and the harbinger of a cold, bleak winter bring such peace to the mind. Fall is a wonderful season of melancholy marked by a thoughtful sense of joy. I figure that as much as we may fear change, we secretly crave for it too. When the leaves are set free by the trees, we are afraid that this might be the last that we see of them. But to feel the life-force of creation once again we have to let go of the past however memorable it may have been.