I took the bus home today and, in passing, noticed the leaves falling in a park that’s close to where I live. I noticed the thin yellowish carpet that had already settled on the grass and then a large leaf that was taking its time to fall.  I tried to imagine its story, but heard nothing, seconds even after it had already hit the ground. And then I remarked that the other leaves were also quiet and that, unlike the previous fall seasons, they had no story to tell.

And then I thought that  the fall of 2012 has been the first silent and story-less fall in nearly four years. A bit of a daunting thought, for it now needs to write itself anew.