Autumn comes with open arms but is undecided on the moment to let go its embrace and stand coldly remote. So sad that this is the season that bites and chills its audience, after first enrapturing them in its russet and ochre ensembles. Leaves fall in its northerning wind like a shower of yellow butterflies that must obey the urge to take to the air and yet fall impotent to the ground with broken wings to lie en masse and deepen to rich brown.

It was on such a day that the elves realised they could not withstand all the trials of the world and built shelters within the tall trees or sought refuge in hidden places underground the forest. There they would wait till the winter passed as I must do now. Yet loreless am I and so out of peace with the world. But no matter for nature lays a trail that none may follow for fear of certain failure. For the strip of green turns ever to brown then to white and all caught unawares on its winter path shall not ever see another spring.