The leaves fall and are transformed into permanent shapes. They crispy up like fried chicken in hot lard. Their ends turn up or their sides turn down. Their crispiness sounds like tiny feet skittering along the roadway. The rain seems to soften them again and they clump up in the gutters and edges of roofs. They float from their perches on branches far above sliding from side to side like an amusement park ride. 
Appearing as feathers, when wet, stick to the first object in the way. Many leaves cling on into the late fall as though they cannot stand the thought of falling to the ground, or are unwilling to have their lives come to an end. Perhaps the leaves know that the tree will have to suffer the cold of winter with no blanket of leaves to protect and warm it. Maybe they are just too lazy to take the plunge. 
When all is said and done, we accept the leaves as they are: green, red, yellow, rust, brown or on the ground!