Autumn always comes quietly, with no birds chirping, no resurrection of all things, and no continuous spring rain; even so, the traces it leaves are everywhere, and few people are aware of it. There are trees outside the window of my residence. I don't know when, the leaves turn yellow, but not yellow enough to wither. It seems reluctant to leave this world, wanting to see the winter snow, the twelfth month snow, and the plum blossoms blooming, but there are no ice flowers in the autumn leaves, and the soil is falling without knowing it. Not knowing how to say goodbye to midsummer, I quietly lay on the treetops, thinking I could escape the desolation and tragedy of autumn.
Purpose: personal essay