In a deathlike stillness only rustle of autumnal leaves was heard as cold wind ran over whispering that winter’s frigidness is here.
“The fall has gone too soon”, mused I as I turned and sauntered down the empty street. Fallen leaves squeaked under my feet as if solemnity of evening was being offended. Having walked a kilometer down the familiar path, I stopped.
“Why does discontentment have to be the part of autumn?”, as this strange thought presented itself, I shrugged with an audible exhalation.
“What can I say?”, I murmured as if the question came from someone else instead of voices in my head. I’m so fond of confusing my mind by dwelling on eerie thoughts that often excite my imagination.
The fall is mature and solemn. No wonder Henry Ward Beecher wrote:
“October is nature’s funeral month. Nature glories in death more than life. The month of departure is more beautiful than the month of coming – October than May. Evergreen thin loves to die in bright colors.”
Gloom is synonymous with autumn, and yet, it is my favorite time of the year. When you look at the maples, you can sense as if silence listening to silence. Then I understand the true meaning of George Eliot’s words:
“Delicious Autumn! My very soul is wedded to it, and if I were a bird. I would fly about the earth seeking the successive autumn”, said she.