Crashing down, the withering leaves of the once powerful trees,

Scurrying, a family of beavers into their haven of wood, evading the needle sharp storm,

Panicking, out of woods goes all but one, abandoned by family, left alone to perish,

The leaf, small and innocent, with its tattered remnants of a barely recognizable hue of green, remains its position upon the crooked branch

Water, from the sky of octopus ink, crashes down against the feeble leaf 

Mystical and melodious carols, conducted by the nature’s smallest child, following the rhythm of its soul 

Faster, goes the frigid knives of the storm, stomping its giant feet, exerting much effort to disrupt the sonorous song, but the leaf plays on without change 

Slayed, the dragon of the forest, by the little leaf following his own path

Going, an icy storm scrambling out the forest