Spot, the Sycamore Leaf

Most of the leaves have fallen, leaving a grey landscape of bare branches under leaden November skies. But beech trees hang on to their leaves, sucking the chlorophyll back into themselves slowly, although with very lady-like slurps I'm sure. Their branches flounce low along the path beside the Derwent, a last laugh of sunshine yellow before the first frosts.
A stray sycamore leaf with a beauty-spot decided to join in the flouncing after her own tree cast her off. A useful lesson in making the best of things in the face of fate and fatality.