The tree is almost bare now. Only a few of us, our color changed to yellow and brown, cling to the branches. No butterflies hover over us. Even a gentle breeze causes chaos.
I watch a bunch of my neighbors take their plunge to the ground. I’m reconciled to the inevitable.
The lone old man on the balcony observes us closely. He is sometimes seen, eyes moist, holding a photograph of the woman who used to give him company till recently.
My hold on the branch is precarious. Another breeze. As I spin down, the man waves his frail hand slowly.