I like the idea of trying to find a story between the differing speeds of the hard rain and the leisurely fall of leaves, and of the landscape being unhooked from our usual perception and grinding back and forth on gears. Autumn is always a good writing season for me. I grew up in Canada, where winter comes early and stays late, and although I now live in Southern California, where autumn is obvious only for those who look for it, the chilly autumn winds of the north still blow inside me--it's a season both terrifying and beautiful, the cold rustle of dry leaves underfoot, each stem breaking from the branch a separate death, signaling the season of cold slumber to come.
The stage is set for the onslaught of winter every year and the same drama is set in motion, so premeditated yet so new. Every snowflake carries its own unique story.