I learned early how to shake in the wind, how to make sounds in the rain, and how to be tinged beautifully by the autumn sunshine. But how the leaf’s life is completed depends on the way it falls. It doesn’t matter where it falls. Even if it falls on the ground, it is still a leaf. Though it seems to be driven by the wind, it doesn’t give itself up to coincidence. At least I know how to descend silently after flying dozens of miles. To do that, you firstly have to have an eye for the wind. As your body is lifted by the wind, you have to feel the capacity and turning speed of the wind. Have you ever seen a leaf that lands on the river after wandering fluttering in the air? How long have I waited for its last word? It isn’t different when a raindrop makes faint ripples on water or a shooting star fades after crossing itself in the sky. The moment when death, opening its mouth, accepts a body, the moment is important. As you need to catch a moment when the object accords exquisitely with the light when you take a picture, there is a decisive moment. At the moment when a raindrop running along a leaf vein stops at an apex, you need to hit your ankle with gentle firmness. And then you may see a short but long, long life passing before your eyes. More than half the leaves have already left the tree. They did not fall, they flew away. It looks like a scene that seems to repeat itself every year, but to a leaf, just one fleeting second is given, the moment to go flying, writing its epitaph in the air.