Every fall the trees take their cue from the dwindling sunlight, the smell of frost on the wind, the slow chilling of their roots, and they begin to prepare themselves for the long, cold winter. Their leaves flash into brilliance for a few short weeks until, exhausted by this last effort, they give in to the insistent gusts of wind, loose their hold on the trees’ branches, and sink slowly toward the ground.

If you sit quietly in the cool fall morning, a rhythm emerges. The air crackles with crisp leaves, each waiting in nervous anticipation of the next breeze. Waiting, shivering, waiting, shivering. Then, in a random burst of playfulness, the breeze swells and sends little showers of new-fallen foliage to join its brethren in drifts on the ground. As the raucous chorus of agitation subsides, everything sinks again into nervous, crackling anticipation.

On one day each year, this rhythm shifts. On this one day, the Linden trees disrupt the pattern. These Linden trees have stood in stubborn refusal to join in the indiscreet rompings of the other trees. Their leaves barely shift in color. Their leaves care nothing for the playful whisperings of the breeze. Their leaves continue to perform their duties with barely a care for the frost-tipped air. Until this one day, that is. On this day, all the Linden trees relinquish their hold on their leaves in a common acknowledgement that winter has come. On this day, if you sit quietly in the cool fall morning, the air crackles with the sound of Linden leaves falling in a constant and unrelenting rhythm.

By evening, the Linden tree will be bare and its roots will be buried in a deep pile of discarded leaves. Winter is here.