The wind whispers through trees aflame with reds and auburns, smelling of winter. The sun sits low in a cloudless blue sky, light and warmth to the few bundled souls braving the morning chill.
This campus is beautiful on November weekends, and I've forgotten my camera.
Except for the blistering winds, and the wave of falling leaves, and fogged up glasses, and...
I disagree. The falling leaves dance to and fro with just an angel's breath of effort.
I dont see how you can call the huge gusts of wind angels breath. And they don't dance, they fly beserk.
No, the wind is feisty, I agree, but the leaves? They frolic like children on a spring day in a beflowered meadow encircled by majestic peaks in the Alps.
Maybe children in a gloomy night city rainstorm who are out to steal your wallet...
That would be tragically misunderstood children in a gloomy night city rainstorm whose energetic, street-inspired dance in the downpour offers them a creative and nonviolent means of transcending the steel-and-concrete reality of their gritty existence. Yes, think of the children!
Think of the children who are mummering suspicious threats under their breath and reaching for their switch blades.
Ok, all these metaphors have completely confused me. What conclusions are you drawing by saying that falling leaves are like children with switch blades?
I mean that they have nothing but malicious intent
well i'll be, you're all poetry. ;)