Ontario falls are spectacular. The trees turn into giant, technicolored flowers. They are every shade of yellow, orange, and red, with vestiges of green. It’s breathtaking.
But the delights of fall are not over even when the leaves drop to the ground. I love their musty smell, the papery sounds my feet make crunching through mounds of them, the percussive songs their partner, the wind, performs with them.
Why does everyone rush to bag them, contain them, get rid of them? Are these people oblivious to the many ways leaves reward the senses?
Here are a couple of yards next to us. A few leaves have not been kidnapped yet:
Behold our yard.
There are those who would make small tsk-ing sounds as they walk past our yard. They might call us lazy, or lacking in tidiness.
But I say, we are among those who honor leaves, who understand that they must be allowed their full glory.