The leaves are now in various stages of death. Commercial floral arrangements are in denial, desperate for bright rays that linger. Our sun is dying a little bit every day. Even in summer the sun is dying. Every second there’s always less than there was before. This is why, when fall comes, I don’t mourn the loss of sunshine; it’s always lost. Fall is a party, ode to a dying sun. The dead leaves are not a loss, but confirmation in the form of natural confetti that, in the face of the inevitable, we are still moving, dancing in orbit, spinning in a helpless slant in a pointless circle around the dying sun.