Fallen leaves scamper at my feet,
like a scourge of plagued rats.
Unlike the rats, they are welcome at my feet,
but much like the rats, they mean only death.
For they are the harbingers of a great fire that will sweep our lands,
red, orange, and yellow,
and will signal the turning of the seasons,
the coming of ice and frigid gales,
the feeling of death,
which will ravage my heart.