It’s a cool, crisp fall day, only subtly interrupted by footsteps and the faint sound of a blowdryer. In the center of the courtyard there is a lone tree, surrounded by a dirt circle with its roots interwoven into the ground. In a sea of concrete, it almost seems like the world telling us we will not fall. The trunk of the tree is worn and jagged, peppered with holes made by the school children that have come and gone. I look up, and I see that the tree’s leaves are red. It feels like the tree is a phoenix, powerful and majestic, but inside knowing that its demise is on the horizon. I guess that’s just life, a never ending cycle of death and rebirth, death and rebirth. A gust of wind comes, and scatters the leaves like dust to the wind.