The branch shivered. For weeks, the old oak had shed its gilded cloak, one rustle at a time. Now, only one remained, a solitary ember clinging to the highest tip. It had watched its kin descend, twirling, spiraling, finally succumbing to the earth's embrace.

A sharp gust of wind, smelling of approaching snow, tore through the skeletal canopy. The leaf quivered, a final, defiant tremble. Then, with a sigh like paper tearing, its stem gave way. It danced on the air, a miniature, russet parachute, catching the last pale light before settling gently on the frozen ground amongst countless others. The tree stood stark, ready for winter's quiet.