Listopad(Russian): The falling of the leaves.
Gently towards the Earth, they come in waves as the year rounds to a close. In droves they litter the streets, colored the rising sun, dried with bristle veins, crunched under the feet of the world.
Their owners, stripped of their clothes, wither away till they can find a new cloak. Their companions wither in another realm, unable to caress the shriveled bones of their owners.
Some find their way to the confines of a warm abode planted between the processed skin of their owners. They retain their musk, their color, their form as they rot away on the shelves of those with better ways to pass the time.
They stay only for a fortnight as the cold winds draft their memories into another day.