We of course don’t have anything approximating your autumn here, but I have often imagined it. Beautiful, but also violent, no? Those leaves, not yet deadened, ripped off the only mother they’ve ever known, their hold on a branch. Here the sun beats and beats, and the plants, perhaps, come to expect it. Every day the homicidal sun. Your autumn, I’ve read about it, seems much like a sudden, wrenching death. Or do I misunderstand it from the leaf’s point of view?