It was an autumn night in the barren forest, and by an empty house was the one full tree. It’s leaves clung to it so stubbornly, even as they bloomed red and yellow and buckled in the winter air.
A little black crow sat on the edge of a wall, chirping, cawing, “will you fall? Little leaves, like the rest, will you fall?”
The leaves were frightened, trembling, shaking on the limb of the oak. “No!” They all said, croaked. “At least, not all.”
The mother oak laughed, and she bent far into the wind. “Yes, they will, and die. You’ve grown from me long enough—into the wind, now, you’ll spill and soar and fly.”
“We are afraid,” said the leaves. They did not want to be like the leaves on the ground, dry and browned, shriveled up, and forgotten.
“Why be afraid? You’re only leaves, and next spring, flowers you’ll be. Through rain and snow, you’ll live forever. It’s worse to die knowing you stayed here, rotting on my branches.”
“But we’ll die forever, as well,” they cried. “We won’t fall, never, we won’t be cast aside! You hate us.”
“Silly leaves, I love you!” Cried the mother oak, and she shook her branches till they fell. They spiraled to the earth and shivered in the frozen dew. “And I’ll love you next spring, and next spring, and that spring after, too.”
All the leaves went quiet, and they huddled in the dirt. It was cold, still, but the wind left them be.
The crow flapped down to meet them, and cocked its little head. “How does it feel to die? To lay in the dirt and be cold? To be so far from your mother? Will you cry, or rage?”
“We fell today. We’re dead again,” said the youngest leaf, now still, voice soft but bold. “But, we’ll be flowers beside the heath and rose and sage and thyme. Mother knows.”
“How can you know? Why do you trust her?”
“I’ve felt this before,” said the leaf, as it curled in on itself. “When the wind doesn’t rush. Our colors fade, and we lose our luster in the dirt. The earth wants to hold us. I think this was the right time to fall.”
And the leaf went still, and didn’t speak at all.
