Autumn. Trees prepare for long winters.
Leaves fall, golden brown, without a sound, and yet.....?

No.
Nothing, but the whispers of the wind taunting.
I once thought, thought i heard a word or two.
But lashing past these fearful murmers quickly flew.
'Winter's coming! ! ', winter's coming cried they!
and all at once the forest had its say, with mournful song it seemed.

The high and fitful cries among the young, and steady disagreement here nor there, but chorused still with that fateful breeze.

The elders seemed not deny their want for sleep... but hated
chaos that ice and snow would surely reap.
Yet, one great oak smiles without a care.

Wracked and bent with age yet still, he stands alone and mocks his lamented brothers.