The leaf is set to fall,
crimson, yellow, brown;
'tis the autumn of the year,
when all the leaves come down.

I love the crunchy sound they make,
when the foot falls ******* them;
the dying leaves surrender,
now broken from its stem.

They dance across the highway,
they swirl and churn with glee;
but do the people notice?
sometimes I think, just me.

In the hills of old Vermont,
the maples are the best;
so bright, the falling leaf,
so separate from the rest.

Like us, they are unique,
with the fashion show they bring;
they call tourists from all states,
and cause one's heart to sing.