Voices in the trees. What are they saying? Indistinct all, these voices without faces. The leaves turn red now, and the seasons change in only a moment. Singing begins, sweetly yet incoherently, and the red fire of rage spreads skyward. Then it becomes trapped in the setting sun to burn with indignation. It ignites the soul and the fire spreads still further, unquenchable. Anger burns bright, and a clenched fist shakes at the heavens as the ignorant frustration surfaces to float in the shine of her eye. Then the shine fades, or rather begins to drip, and an unacknowledged tear faces gravity in a losing battle. And all the time the seasons change, and her indignation's fate dictates only a spark of color in the west. All hope must set in the dying of the day. Forever now that fire sleeps.