Not prone to name bears or attribute human qualities to breaching whales, I do romanticize leaves. In Fall,  I see them as farmer-soldiers in the survival wars. Born for one season of hard work, they let their life and color drain to the roots at life end. If human soldiers, their generals would paint this form of suicide as noble service of  the greater good. With mute leaders, leaves write their own obituary,  each a unique composition in Fall color.