Describe what the fall season would be like from the perspective of a tree:  

The fall is coming. I hear it. I see it. I feel it.

I can hear it in the whining of cicada—the countdown to the summer day. They are saying goodbye to this world with their last songs. They are singing with their blood, with their left energies and life, trying to leave a trace of their existence. And then, they fall down from my leaves and die.

I can see it in the smothering heat of the Sun. Summer is soon losing it’s control over this land. However, in the last ruling moments, Summer is burning itself to show it’s power. He tries to scare the Fall away. But it’s but a losing battle. Still, he will fight until the last minute.

I can feel it in the increasing heaviness on my body. The tiredness, the exhaustion, like dead lead, seeps into my serum, and then slowly, slowly spreads to my branches, to my leaves. Soon, I’m going to burn. I will keep burning until my last leave turns into flames and my branches become too week to hold myself together. By then, my golden leaves, twirling and spinning in current, will all be hurled away by gusts of the merciless Fall.

The Fall is coming. Her existence like smell pushing up from the earth beneath my feet. She is in the whisper of the nature, the whisper that has become so frequent and so loud these days, the whisper that hangs on my leaves, sometimes cold and hollow, sometimes pregnant with things that I don’t understand, like an ancient language that lost forever in time. And I tremble in the wind, my heart would soon break in silence.

People, who used to ignore me when I am young and healthy, are going to gather around me, marveling at the beauty of my death. They come and go, taking pictures and whispering the secrets of life.

People assume that I have many years to live. They say when Spring comes, green buds will burst out and I would come back to life again. How arrogant and ignorant they are! Everyone in the nature, except human beings, knows that our tree only has one circle to go through, ---from Spring to Winter, no more no less.

In the next year, when buds grow, that would not be me. It’s another life.

The Fall is coming. It brings the most glorious moments of my whole life, as well as my own Death.