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| All alone London, ON October 2025 This photo originally shared on Instagram |
Leaves that just a few months ago burst from tiny buds in shades of fresh green now flash brilliant red before falling one last time to their inevitable shrivelled fate.
Some hold on a little longer than others, desperate for a few more hours or days. But nature’s script is a strict master, and time eventually runs out for them all, leaving only a bare framework to whisper in winter’s winds.
I tell myself it’s just a tree. That the seeds of renewal are already being planted. That life continues on beneath the surface. That what we can’t see is often more vibrant than the things we can.
But I’ll still miss the red. The quiet endings of leaves floating to the ground one last time, gathering in the grass, scattering in the wind. The long wait for vibrancy to return, nurtured by the remnants of the past. The defiance of a single young tree fighting to survive in a wide open plain.
We’re all touched by our own forms of cycles, playing out somewhat endlessly in ways both visible and not. If we’re watching the trees, who, then, watches us?
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