The large window in the office’s southern wall frames seasonal pictures of the immediate neighbourhood. Today is a beautiful fall day. As I write, the sun’s bright light bathes the landscape. There is a row of tress with flaming red leaves in one of the neighbour’s yards. Towering above them and forming an arch are two maple trees. These are clad in leaves turned yellow and tinted with red with the advent of fall. Swaying to the dictates of the wind the whole scene gives an impression of a huge bonfire with the red-leaved trees at the core of the fire and the yellow leaves of less intense heat. As if to complete the bonfire scene, the falling leaves appear like sparks flying out of the bonfire. It is, of course, not a real fire but the scene nevertheless, warms the spirit.
Fall is generally a season with cooler temperatures as the days get shorter and the earth tilts away from the sun. These lead to the trees changing their colours which make fall, in my opinion, the most beautiful of seasons. The explosion of lively and vivid colours, in variety and shade, more than compensates for the cooler temperatures and grey skies which are so much a part of fall. Everywhere there are scenes to feed the soul as the creation garbs itself in its Joseph-like coat. Even when the leaves surrender their tenacious clutch on the trees, they continue to give pleasure.
One of the things I enjoy about fall is to watch the leaves falling from the trees. It is a beautiful sight to see the leaves, urged by the wind, cascading from the trees. As they bow to the force of gravity they reflect the sunlight in varying intensity of brightness now on their upper side, now on their silvery underside. I find it somewhat entertaining also to watch the leaves blowing about on the ground. They head this way and then suddenly change direction going another way. They look like a huge multitude of children playing a game of ‘catch me if you can’. Sadly, that is where the pleasure ends and the price is paid for it.
The leaves, now withered and stripped of their former colourful glory, cease to be a source of pleasure. They must be raked and bagged. Not the most pleasurable of tasks, I must say.