I padded through the piles of fallen leaves. By then, most of the leaves had turned from the deep wine purple of summer to the royal purple of autumn. A few trees had even hastened to their seasonal demise, and their leaves faded to the blue violet of winter.
I felt a soft ‘plop’ on the top of my head and caught a leaf as it slid down my hair. I ran my finger over the smooth top of the leaf, then flipped it over. The underside had a layer of cotton-like fibers, thick and brilliant in color. I estimated it to be about a half inch thick. I nodded in satisfaction and glanced at the people around me, all carefully gathering the leaves into large sacks. We would sort through them and return the unsuitable ones to the forest floor, to help insulate the root systems. The best would be prepared and spun into thread. During the long winter, as snow fell on the violet strewn ground, we would slowly craft bolt after bolt of luxuriant cloth.
I belonged to this forest and this city. We were the Purple Weavers.