photo: Leaves speak the language of temperature. In all their autumn glory, they are telling me « the cold is coming ».

The light bends like a truth slightly guilty because of its harshness, while the leaves fall brilliantly. Why does my shadow tug at my sleeve to confide in me, to remind me of old stories I had buried so well? Yet we make peace for a while, just to crumple a few leaves in the last rays of light.