Autumn is earth's satisfied exhalation. It's a season of strong character but it’s also precarious, often threatening an early segue into the tyranny of winter. If spring is spontaneous, autumn is pensive. If summer is frivolous, autumn is sentimental. If winter is dormant, autumn is a wise acquiescence of finality. In autumn, passions crackle like leaves underfoot, and when they take shape on still mornings, they hold form with stubborn, overwhelming clarity.