Look at the dead leaves. Have you ever had the time to do that? They are like little doilies scattered on the forest floor, like somebody had a picnic and forgot them there. The ones that are very old and beginning to disintegrate, that is. Look closely; they are almost like lace, only more beautiful because they are that way by accident. Hold one up to the sun on an October morning and the rays will push and peek through the openings like they do when they try to break through the translucency of stained glass. You don't really just come across them; you have to look intently at the ground until one decides to present itself. They're so frail, you see, so thin that their existence is almost questionable, almost surreal. They're like bits of broken glass on the kitchen floor. They hold their breath, waiting to be discovered.