Crunchy Leaves!

It is strange to write the date as above. It feels like the last thing to December. If we were judging only by the faculties of the senses and expectation, without recourse to calendars and watches, I would think it April, or maybe early May. Of course, until you are away from what you are used, you don't realise you have a habit - or indeed, sense - of the changing year and seasons. So of course, there is a clash of fact and sensibility, producing what is altogether an interesting alloy of confusion. As a faithful devotee of autumn and its sundry delights, this is perfect - I can only lament at there not being drifts and drifts of crunchy brown and red leaves - I know I spend all year waiting for the bushery (I know that isn't a word :P)(it is now) next to the old railway line (near my house) to start accommodating the season: the leaves go first yellow, and then bright vermillion, from the tip of the leaf, upwards. It looks like it's dripping redness.

I took photos of it last year (when I still had my camera)(*sigh*).

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"Dear, dear Norland," said Elinor, "probably looks much as it always does at this time of the year. The woods and walks thickly covered with dead leaves."
"Oh," cried Marianne, "with what transporting sensation have I formerly seen them fall! How have I delighted, as I walked, to see them driven in showers about me by the wind! What feelings have they, the season, the air altogether inspired! Now there is no one to regard them. They are seen only as a nuisance, swept hastily off, and driven as much as possible from the sight."
"It is not every one," said Elinor, "who has your passion for dead leaves."
- Sense and Sensibility