Of the few and several remaining leaves cured in the breeze and light and dew dangling from branches, each twists and flutters independently, drawing attention to their fastening not obviously visible. How do they remain when all the others have fallen?
Do they have a strength or stubbornness or means of support we cannot see? Or are they too proud to die? –Resisting what befell others? –Resisting Autumn?
What is inevitable, the course of Spring birth, Summer strength and vitality and veins drawing and returning sweet nectar, to Autumn maturity that ages some –no, most –to Fall, to trickle unnoticed, fluttering on breeze or gust to dance their death suspended on waters below and be carried to someplace else but not unlike here.
Or, they will resist on the otherwise deserted branches resisting stoically the inevitable.
They may be too proud to fall with the others, but they will fall, or rot on their branches and fall from their own weight instead of the noble breeze. And the falling will lack the autumnal ceremony and nobility of flutter and dance in newly crisp airs. They will just fall, too weak and withered to resist any longer.