Two willow oak trees flank the entrance to the building where I work, and I love the time of year when the leaves come inside. They gather in drifts and eddies around our steps. They come between the double doors, up the steps, and wait like the rest of us in front of the elevator. Some ride the elevator all day. And some make their way onto the third (and top) floor, where I work. I can’t explain why it makes me happy, except that it’s nature asserting itself. The throw rugs of leaves on the sidewalks and parades of leaves in the gutters make downtown seem momentarily, recklessly magical, the way a dusting of snow can do the same to an urban landscape.
In simplest, clearest terms, I am grateful for the changing of the seasons. To live in a temperate climate where we get to experience them. For the variety, and the cycling. For the novelty of the autumn leaves on this day, and the memory that this happened before, thus the hope that it will come again. Just as the bare branches hold faith that green life will spring forth again.