The Fall of Fall

Looking out over the verdant Vermont foliage, the hillsides dappled in shades of gold and rust, I wonder, "Who will be the last to feel a fall breeze?" As the winters grow warmer and the summer more intense, spring and autumn drift into memory. Who will be the last child to play in a pile of fallen leaves? Who will be the last person to feel the tingle of a gust of wind, carrying on it the scent of bonfires and the promise of snow? Who will be the last to celebrate Halloween during a storm, bundled up beneath  their costume and grasping a bucket of candy with wind-bitten fingers? I look out  the window and see the leaves fading to brown branches. I exhale, watching my breath float through the icy air like a half corporeal spirit. I watch the wind carrying leaves south like migratory birds. They don't call them "leaves" for nothing, you know. They're there, and in an instant, gone.
I watch the news in history class, pictures of destruction of all kinds flashing across the screen. War, disease, filth, and weather. Tornadoes, fires, winds and floods. Death and hopelessness spreading across the world beneath the burning ozone, watching in it's holiness from on high.
It's getting worse. Every day the sea rises. Every day the ice caps melt. All I can do is recycle my old notebooks, watch the leaves, and try to hope.
At the tail end of October, autumn is fleeting, fleeing on a freezing blast of air. I hope it sticks around for a little while  longer, so that my grandchildren may play in the leaves.