The museum opens its side door just after the first tea. A keeper in a wool scarf lifts yesterday’s gold from the path, one leaf at a time, and stands each on a little cardboard mount. By ten the hall is a quiet forest that has learned to hold still.
We asked at the kiosk. The woman selling postcards said a boy had waited for a maple leaf to nod before he copied its shape. He bought a stamp anyway, she added, and asked whether the exhibits were allowed a glass of water.
A notebook by the exit kept the thanks. One line read: the pointed one from the corner maple bowed on time. Another: please do not clap, they are only visiting. By dusk the mounts were empty, and the trees along the square looked as if someone had given them their blankets back.