The pace of autumn is too fast. Before the green in the eyes can be replaced by the golden color of the harvest, it is replaced by the boundless snow.

Will there still be warm glory under that tall maple tree? Will that warm applause still float leisurely and cause me silent comfort?

The snow is still floating mercilessly, covering the withered yellow path without a trace, climbing up to the bare mountain top, and covering the bare treetops. Quietly, the world has been put on a cold jade outfit, which is particularly ruthless.

I left the warm stove, got into the snow, and quickly browsed the vast world. Is there no spring? Death, without the lushness of summer, without the rumors of autumn, there is only confusion, only coldness and arrogance.

Closer, closer, that familiar maple tree is closer. I moved suddenly, and never stopped moving again - the fiery red maple also disappeared into a ruthless loneliness...