There were lots of leaves in the Maritimes.
Most of them were dead.
Some of them were still clinging to trees.
Some parts had barely started to change colour.
With only the tips dying.
Others were already nearly dead.
Sometimes death is pretty.
Like when it’s whizzing past in the car.
Or rushing towards you.
Or away from you.
Or just hanging around.
Or when it’s slightly moist.
Or dripping wet.
