An attribute of autumn I once found delightful but now find depressing and burdensome is taking place as I write this. Trees are losing leaves as if the trees were rejecting poisonous attackers, flinging them to the ground in an attempt to survive the onslaught of climate-adjusted winter. Streets are slick with leaves, made even more slippery with periodic heavy rainfall. Driveways hide beneath thick layers of brown and orange and yellow and red exfoliation. Entryways to houses beckon visitors with colorful nests of leaves, the majority of which appear to have some sort of glue that is activated by footsteps and, then, is deactivated when the leaves touch floors inside houses.
I wouldn’t find leaf-fall so troublesome if everyone else would just let the leaves fall where they may. But they aren’t satisfied to do that. No, they must blow the leaves into piles, thrust them in large bags, and haul them away to a spot where the leaves will be dumped and sucked into the jet stream to be deposited back on the yard next to where they originally were collected. I’ve noticed this year that the vast majority of leaves are a sickening orange-yellow reminiscent of a certain someone’s hideous head of hair.