![](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYed8pkHrsuYSq7pJqEz2kvDR4kdpUxgnLdNec6neFBSH4T_Uq7fDq-BABjGk38SM8hMoabLQSUOss3mRDxhS-dxTEasv0yv2oIcgpDGblexwzN9Y6_9iAusSjiC2KPhMKr-nX/s320/NorwayMapleYellowPS.jpg)
The frost hit hard two nights ago, as the temperature dipped to the low 20s. A full moon shone down from so nearly straight above, and so bright on a cold snap night that even a town slicker took notice. I went outside and in the stillness heard the floppy sound of Norway Maple leaves hitting the ground in a steady letting go. No other kind of tree was dropping its leaves--only the Norway Maples, still responding after centuries in America to cues and tempos learned long ago in distant lands.
![](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVkiyYaGT81TJeuLY5cq_tNqQ-Qk7y8g0spx_YX2HH5-3I0csg42YIrQz-iGxroAPH8zlt3JgHrUOHlRsa0gt9Ds2rE7RcrUBq73KwT77WTOcHb1180bnvQ5xZ-JQ7Aqzc6hMK/s320/NMapleLeavesPatioPS.jpg)
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