According to a branch message, one of our leaves is upset at the prospect of being let go. Tell it fallen leaves turn into compost, so it’ll give nurture and life to future generations. If it likes to look at things that way. But no (sap reports back from twig to branch to central core), leaf still hanging on grimly. Sigh. There’s always one. Tell it leaves must fall, separate, depart – that’s why they’re called leaves, ffs. Off it twirls, convinced by our spurious patter. And now we feel strangely sad. Bereft. It’s like this every autumn, but we forget.