Fall arrives like a secret murmured through the forest: slow, certain, and flickering. The mossy floor blushes underfoot, its dampness swallowing the scent of Endings and Beginnings.
Red appears everywhere now: in the last brave leaves clinging to their lifelines, in the scattered wild berries, and most vividly, in the Amanita, that small, audacious, pock-marked flash of colour on a soon-to-depart canvas.
She stands like a heartbeat in the hush, dangerous and beautiful, daring the world to forget that decay is just another form of life. Go ask Alice, I think she’ll know.
Her fungi-friends rise overnight like small miracles, secretive, cloaked in mystery, persistent.
When the rain comes, it falls softly at first, just a mist you can breathe.
The air tastes alive, metallic and green, like a layer of the world’s skin has… opened.
Somewhere between the droplets and the fading light, the woodland begins to hum, with pressing presence. 
I inhale it deeply, that wet agreement, and for a moment I feel part of a cycle … of growth, of rot, of return. The forest exhales, and I return the favour.
The air thickens with aromas, no, better word: petrichor.
A quiet magic. And I feel time loosen its grip. In this motionlessness, I understand that Fall isn’t an ending at all, it’s the earth remembering how to breathe.
Joëlle Rabu 11.03.2025
Nanaimo and Tllaal photos by JR