After the Storm

Fall, leaves, fall

By Emily Jane Brontë

Fall, leaves, fall; die, flowers, away;
Lengthen night and shorten day;
Every leaf speaks bliss to me
Fluttering from the autumn tree.

I shall smile when wreaths of snow
Blossom where the rose should grow;
I shall sing when night’s decay
Ushers in a drearier day.





A surreal landscape awaited us today on our weekly walk. The storm in the early afternoon had caused a temperature difference sufficient to raise a mist. It stood paralyzed, suspended just above the water. Even the macaques, always busy haranguing the weekend warriors along the board walk, seemed to have been silenced by the hauntingly beautiful scene before our eyes, and were nowhere to be seen. It brought back memories of a cold autumn school day many moons ago...