b'N ovemberagain.Itsmorewinterthanautumn.Thatsnotmist.Itsfog.Thesycamoreseedshitthe glass in the wind likeno, not like anything else, like sycamore seeds hitting window glass. Thereve beenacoupleofwindynights.Theleaves are stuck to the ground with the wet. The ones on the paving are yellow androtting,wanwood,leafmeal.Oneisso stuckthatwheniteventuallypeelsaway,itsleafshapeleftbehind,shadow of a leaf, will last on the pavement tillnext spring. The furniture in the garden is rusting. Theyve forgotten to put it awayfor the winter. The trees are revealing their structures. Theres the catch of fire in the air. All the souls are out marauding. But there are roses, there are still roses. In the damp and the cold, on a bush that looks done, theres a wide-open rose, still. Look at the colour of it.Ali Smith, Autumn'