In passing, I observed the seasons.
The pride of a tree is in the brilliance of its leaves, gently wavering under the guidance of the wind, in the warm embrace of the sun in the height of the summer.
Though with the warmth departing more and more with every passing day, the sunlight has begun to falter, hardly piercing the still autumn air. A tree stands in solitude on a hill, its spine straight and strong extended skyward.
With the dwindling light, the greens shift to hues of orange.
With shortening days, the orange to red, and then the leaves began to fall.
And with the fall the red succumbs to brown, while the tree trembles gently in its nakedness gazing down upon its leaves which decaying by its side.
The brisk autumn air became harsh as the days passed and became shorter still, and the clouds above shifted from their billowing pure-white to a uniform sheet of grey. Then they released droplets, and the water froze as it fell, suspending itself in the air as snow. The tree's strong spine began to weaken, and in the cold of the season the trunk of the tree began to twist and contort in defeat.