It’s a curious thing, how the leaves fall, and how the fields flirt with the summer breeze. I sometimes sit and ponder if the world is more alive than I, more interesting and intricate. The complexities that all have to occur in tandem to create the stillness of an early autumn morning, or the power that comes with spring showers. “What being could command such wonders?” I think to myself, “One? Or many? Or none?” The questions that echo through time. The number of people who’ve given their lives for something more fleeting than the yellow blooms of dandelions. But why, do the seasons in their infinite experience hold that answer? Am I too blind to see it or they too cruel to reveal it? This ,of course, grants dominion to the seasons as if they were conscious. But aren’t they? The Earth responds to its ever changing climate with differences in ecosystem-based interaction between life and lifeless. They must, the seasons, then know who is responsible. These combinations and companionships are far above even the best of mortal minds. But then again, what if the seasons are, themselves, the ones responsible? What if they are the gods?