falling leaves - quotes and descriptions to inspire creative writing
The leaves in the wind are like sails without boats, carefree and joyful. Their colours sing to the blue of the sky and the green grass below. I imagine myself as tiny as an ant, riding one. The leaf would feel like paper, yet shine as church glass. My fingers would curl about the edge. Gravity pulling, air pushing and me just along for the ride.
Falling leaves tumble from the interlocking branches above, branches that grow so thickly only bright gaps of sunshine break through. As autumn marches toward winter there will be only those fine strands of brown in the distance and the sunlight will cascade to the forest floor unhindered.
Falling leaves bid farewell to sweet summer and beckon the autumn in. Like the moving hand of a clock they mark time in their own chaotic way, the only way nature comprehends. For the flora and fauna they are simply part of the triggers nature brings to warn them of the changes afoot: coolness, longer nights and the sun lower in the sky.
The falling leaves flutter down, sparse in the cool mid-autumn air. In other places perhaps they are a feast of colours - enough to feed the soul as well as they eyes. I've read about leaves like that, I've imagined them like a garish quilt over the ground. Perhaps if I saw them I'd be poetical too, but these leaves are all brown. The only difference between now and winter is the crunch underfoot and soon even that will be dampened by the rains.
To Todd the falling leaves were like crispy fried starfish, brown and ready to stamp on until they broke into a million fragments. Just seeing them was like eating five candy bars. His arms got crazy pumped and his legs just had to run. He milled about the park, bolting up and down the path until he was either satisfied with his destruction or out of breath; and should any have the audacity to fall while he was watching he exterminated them with extreme prejudice.
Down they come like multicoloured rain. Golds, reds and browns. They are a myriad of shapes and sizes, these leaves that clothed the trees. Now they are discarded like last seasons fashions and left to become part of the soil. But before that happens they make the most splendid mosaic that is unique in all the world. Yet I am here to witness it in this moment.
I stared at the leaves falling from the trees. It was quite breathtaking, at the most. Utterly beautiful. First a green leaf, then shortly afterwards a yellow leaf stained with bits of orange and green. They hit the ground lightly, making no sound effects. I could stay there all day, observing the utmost gorgeous pattern of the leaves dying off of the trees.
As the leaf made it's final journey to the earth it fell in a graceful tumbling motion, seeking the least resistance from the autumnal air. Already dead, yet it's color and it's dance were so alive. It's descent was utterly silent until it joined it's brethren below, and even then the noise was barely audible. Then a new leaf is plucked by unseen hands from the boughs above and takes over the stage as if choreographed.
The leaves come down like the most outrageously large confetti, everything from vivid scarlet to the colour of soil. They fall as if God had pressed some slow-motion button from the heavens, as if determined to savour the moment as am I. It's rare to see so many come down all at once and I can't think why it should be so. I suck in the deepest breath of the damp loamy air I can and focus on my hearing. I want to hear the moment they come to rest on the forest floor, the newest additions to the every changing mosaic below.
The leaf falls, not with the grace of a feather, but not so direct as a stone. It offers only a little resistance to the air, but it's enough to give it that motion - almost predictable but with just the right tinge of chaos the make it entrancing. I watch it until it comes to rest, then smile and go back to selecting rocks of the right size and shape to skip over the surface of the lake.
The leaf falls, not knowing that this is its last dance in the sunlight, its last chance to play in the woodland air. It tumbles with an elegance but all too soon it is lost in the sea of leaves that have already fallen. Part of me wants to find it, pick it up again and toss it high so that perhaps it will make the most of it the second time around, perhaps this time it will dance. But time is short and the bus awaits, this isn't a day for passing time among the trees, but for getting work done, and of that I am assured a never ending supply.
Falling leaves are the song I dance to in the woodland, the trees caught between beauty and solemn earthy tones. The air has a leaf loam tincture that is absent at other times, giving lady autumn a perfume of her own.
The tree was ablaze, or at least appeared to be. Leaves of brilliant yellow, bright orange and subtle red tainted slightly by the brown crispness of late autumn. The leaves swaying gently dancing in the breeze as they took the last steps of there lives to their bitter but inevitable death. The breeze lifting and spinning the leaves allowing them to gracefully tumble and float. Before they finally end their dance finishing heaped upon the ground leaving the tree exposed to the cold harshness winter promises.