The leaves. Oh, god. The leaves.

Monday afternoon. We are at the little park in the shadow of Province House.

The leaves. Oh, god. The leaves.

They are falling all around us. It is a magical game. We run around with our eyes in the sky, trying to catch the leaves before they land on the ground.

The leaves. Oh, god. The leaves.

There are so many of them. They are perfect and crunchy and brown and yellow and not at all damp or yucky. We love them. We drag them into piles and jump in them. We bury each other in them.

The leaves. Oh, god. The leaves.

We throw them at each other. Great armfuls of leaves. On your head. On my head.

We are laughing. We are euphoric. It is a perfect afternoon.

******

Tuesday afternoon. Back at the park. The ground is bare but for a few leaves. Workers have come to clean them up. It is decidedly Less Fun.

I imagine the premier looking out the windows of Province House the day before, watching my family frolic and play in the leaves: our display of pure joy in the people's front yard.

His eyes narrow.

An aide enters the room. He places a tray of tea on a small table beside the premier.

Aide: Something vexes thee, my lord?

Premier: The leaves. Take them away!

He waves his arm and knocks the tea to the floor.

Aide: Yes, my liege. Right away.

*note: this is exactly how I imagine premiers spend their time.