Disclaimer: Tolkien's the genius, not me.
Late autumn is Daeron’s least favorite time of year. The vibrant colors are gone, and all that is left is dreary brown and grey. The songbirds have long flown south, leaving the bare branches empty, like skeletal fingers reaching for a sky that will not regain its most brilliant blue until after the first snowfall.
He sits beside the Esgalduin watching brown, stiff leaves float by, wondering if they will ever see the Sea.
It is too quiet in the forest, now. Daeron puts his pipe to his lips and tries to compose a tune for this most listless season.