Wells Penn

A cool breeze brushed past her, wrapping her in a chill, the smell of earth and grass floating by. This feeling that she got each year meant it was time for her work to begin. She got out her paintbrush and started stroking a low-hanging leaf, a vibrant shade of orange. Like a sunset, or a low-burning fire, and embers flickering as they fall from the wood. 

As she covered the entire leaf, she looked for another bright green leaf that looked like it was ready to shed its skin, and change colors to match the first. She moved through the tree, painting more and more leaves. She moved from one tree to the next, the shade of orange sometimes darkening into red, sometimes a lighter yellow appearing. 

She loved this work. As people walked by, they ogled. Couples kissed under her leaves, children played tag and walked by searching for mushrooms and fallen apples to step on and crunch. A dog would run by its owner running behind, laughter filling the air. People wore cozy sweaters, cardigans, knitted hats and warm boots. A mom walked by beside her daughter, both gasping a warm cup of hot chocolate. 

They all admired her work, yet they never saw her. They would walk only a step away, and as she waved all they felt was a cool breeze passing over them. And with a quick shrug they would continue on.

And when the last leaf shimmered with gold she paused, lifting her face to the sky for a single heartbeat. Then, as silently as she had come, she vanished into the wind.