The children did not notice the leaf. Their voices rose and tangled in the warm September air, while dogs yipped at passing bicycles. High above them, the oak stood in its late-summer pride, heavy with green. But within its crown, one leaf loosened its grip.
It let go.
The world slowed as it drifted. The canopy broke into fragments of light and shadow, each shard catching the leaf’s surface before it tumbled into another. Wind teased it sideways, spun it, set it gliding. The leaf did not resist. Its veins carried no more urgency, no more duty to the branch. Only release.
A boy’s laughter spiked below, quick and bright. The leaf turned toward it, brushed through a ray of sunlight, and watched the ground swell nearer. On one side of the street, a dog barked at nothing at all, the sound rippling up like a wave. On the other, a little girl craned her neck, pointing to the falling shape, unsure if it was a butterfly.
The leaf spiraled lower, slower. For a moment, it hesitated in the still air, weightless above the pavement. Behind it, the oak stirred. Branches whispered in the faintest wind, as if bidding farewell. Soon others would follow, but this first leaf bore the quiet honor of beginning the season’s turning.
It touched down at the edge of a cracked sidewalk. The moment was silent, almost ceremonial. Above, laughter carried on, the dogs still barked, and the sun still shone—but the world had shifted. Summer had ended.
Autumn had begun.