Leaves

I'm painting a scene of a shower of winter leaves on this night, December 10. There is no chilly breeze or frothy mist, and all is clear ahead. And here I am, kneeled under the crown of a great oak tree. Leaves of all pastel forms are brushing past my face, and I know this face, it is my my face. The sky is miserably overcast, but it does not rain. Then scores of withered leaves are lifted off the dry ground, and up they go, swirling in a pool of melancholic tears. Those tears are mine.