It’s a bit of a xanthic mess outside.
But before you scurry alfresco in desperate search of nuclear fallout and The Rapture—which empirical statistics suggest isn’t imminent for another 345-odd days*—appreciate for a few moments and not one moment longer that it’s a very yellow autumn this year.
I’ve seen trees—and bushes; and hedgerows; and shrubberies; and curvilinear Quattron televisions—with more yellow in them than the sun. Children are dancing—or is that skipping? It’s not immediately clear without a telescope—through mammoth stacks of yellah leaves instead of red ones!
Or, at least, they would be, were it not for the invention of bazooka-style leaf-sucking apparatuses, which have made streets clean and youngsters—including those of us at the wrong end of adolescence—less delinquent in the domain of foliage-stack terrorism.
The next time dad heads outside and praises his weird, gatling-gun-alike leaf-genocide-machine for keeping our drains unclogged, I’ll summon a Herculean bit of might and climb a tree—probably a sycamore—in an effort to dislodge more leaves to stack by way of a rake. And then I’ll jump in them and entire crowds will be green with envy. Or yellow.
About me
I'm Jack. Sometimes my hair is untidy, riddled with goblins and smurfs. When I scream into the Grand Canyon, it inspires pained howling in wild dogs and wily coyotes, and compels all leaf-eating mammals to scuttle for higher ground in wait of the great flood. I think Goku is an existential paragon. My life's trajectory is adjusted towards becoming a hermit and dying alone somewhere on top of a golden mountain at sunset. Which is a jolly good innings, all told.
