Standing on my back porch listening to the rain, only there is no rain falling, not a cloud in the sky. Only leaves. Falling, tumbling, slicing through the air with the grace of a ballerina. The rustling sounds echo in my ears, the sound of rain, which isn't rain. Only leaves. Red and orange and yellow and brown falling down to the ground to nestle with dozens, hundreds, thousands of their kind. Only leaves. Blanketing the grass and dirt and weeds and mulch, waiting for the winter ice and snow. Only leaves.