The unquiet passing of the year is seasoned in dead hues, the tones of rot and finality. The brittle leaves, like pale shards of glass, whisper through wooded vales, through empty forgotten fields, to hold a somber court. In wild and forgotten corners, in the shoulders of old roots, in the mud, the frame of reflection. It speaks in notes, its voice the ether, a thick shroud of grey. Fractured by the spreading fingers of darkened naked boughs, emptied of leaves, emptied of me. It speaks in the cries of distant geese, they sing a wild lament, offering an echoing requiem for the end of all.