Still, somewhat warm light reflected

weakly off the pale, green, soft, toothy,

leaves of the beech speaking

toward the blazingly

bright, red, five-fingered maples typing

out silent, glistening code as they

fluttered in the breeze toward

brown oaks which

wouldn’t pass on the word because of

their unreflective dullness, so

the leaves held the message

close to their trunk and

kept the secret longer into the winter than

any other tree, including the

reluctant beeches,when

the oaks, too, called out

the code announcing, as they finally

dropped their leaves onto the cold,

white tomb which would soon

cover their tough,

leathery but lifeless leaves beneath

another layer, the death and

burial of the now completely

finished season.