The sky is ablaze with the last embers of day. The air cools as I step out onto the porch, the wooden creak under my bare feet echoing softly. A gentle breeze whispers through, carrying leaves that dance and swirl like small confetti from a forgotten party. They twirl in intricate patterns before settling gently on the ground or leaping off to find new spots.

I’ve been collecting them all day—yellow, orange, red, and brown. Each leaf has its own story etched into veins and edges, some with tiny holes, others still holding bits of water from morning dew. There’s a maple here, its leaves like brilliant rubies, and a sycamore there, those paper-thin ones almost translucent.

I place my latest finds in the basket by the door, turning to head inside when something catches my eye. A lone leaf, emerald green with just hints of yellow, still clinging stubbornly to the bare branch of an oak. It’s small enough that I can pluck it without disturbing any others. This one feels different; lighter and more fragile than its autumnal companions.

I hold it up to inspect it better under the porch light. The texture is smoother, almost waxy—defiant against nature’s fall. I wonder why this one stayed on longer, if there’s a reason it’s the last leaf of many that have already fallen. Is it simply stronger, or perhaps just unlucky enough to be last?

Perhaps this is the end of another cycle; summer fades completely into winter, and with it, these leaves must depart. Or maybe they will all remain here, hidden until spring, waiting for their chance to shine once more. The thought brings a small smile as I tuck the leaf away in my pocket, ready to take it inside.

As I close the door behind me, the sound of crickets begins to fill the air. They chirp in harmony with the rustling leaves and distant crows. It’s a peaceful scene, one that feels fleeting yet eternal, marking the end of one season and the beginning of another.