Each leaf a small devotion, crunching simply under the weight of my shoe. I am carried up the roots and distributed to a tree that is storing, stocking for a long winter. A pooja for each, death leaps in my throat and is taken by the wind in a song. If I watch the inside of my eye lids long enough, I can see the colours changing and my insides matching the out. Seasons changing and peeling layers of skin, sipped up by the earth for nutrients. These bubbling rivers of heat that swirl in satisfying loops in preparation for the cold. Undercurrents checking each wooden vessel, the pulsing roots that give life and sleep so long and deep that they almost forget to breathe. I crackle up the remnants, the veined paper of Autumn. Sticking to my hair and filling my pockets with comfort. It is kept in the deep red of my blood and the soft sweat on my forehead. The disintegration, beautiful decay and the perfect reminders of mortality.