An invisible artist is at work. I can never spot him, but I know he is there when the colours start changing. The greens turn to yellow and the yellow becomes orange, like it is right now. I follow the deft brush strokes – left swish, right swish, jab, smudge, swish, swish – to the solitary orange leaf floating to the ground. Above it, the naked branch waves a gentle goodbye. There is an entire collection of poetry painted into the scene and yet no one seems to notice. People simply walk past and over the crepe leaves; they ignore the crunching sounds beneath their soles. Instead they pull their jackets tighter, wrapping up against the changing wind.
October 13, 2008