A quiet brook rippling over rocks and pebbles,
It reflects the red and gold of the trees of autumn.
There is chill in the air,
A frosty coolness that seems to go deep into your bones.
The bright colors of fall seem to last so short a time;
A burst of celebration before the winter comes sneaking in.
Fat, soft flakes slowly drift down to rest on a pine bough.
Faster and faster they fall,
Until they cover the needles resting beneath the trees.
Through it all, the brook bubbles along
Until little frost fingers form at the edge of the stream.
Further and further they advance
Until the brook is quiet and cold.