Autumn is so noisy about it

 She thought she was way too clever to write about Fall.
Everyone writes about Fall, the leaves changing,
the colors exploding, the parallel to life's transitions,
blah, blah, blah, she refused to do it.
I mean, sure, everyday she and her arthritic dog 
went out into the Fall and sniffed and noticed the changes,
and yeah, maybe they touched the leaves with their fingers

and nose.  Perhaps they even spoke to the trees sometimes.
One or both of them may have rubbed a cheek
against the smooth bark of a birch and told her, "Don't worry,
about the changes, Honey, you've never looked better," 
and maybe, just maybe the word "majestic" crossed their 
minds.  It wasn't their fault though.
Autumn is so noisy.  

All in their faces about it.
The little yellow leaves especially, they know
what they're doing, being all adorable and sunshiney and
paradoxical (the dog's word, not hers).
The orange ones practically screaming as they fall,
"Loooook at uuuuusss!  With your eyeballs!
Behold and apply the metaphor of us to your lives!
We shall not be ignored!"
So they did.  She and the dog took stock,
because they couldn't not.  They noticed their ages,
they noticed the children's.  They noticed the
children weren't children anymore.
They saw where they'd been, and they wondered what
was next.
But only to be polite.