The last drop

It clung onto the branch for life. A child of the trees. The last of a thousand leaves. A destiny of mulchy brown sludge beneath orange skies, beckoned. The last drop to the roots of the slender Silver Birch.
From the first, fresh Spring rains it had blossomed, the earliest bud, yolking the branch of moisture and breathing in the heady energy of divine air. It had seen the warming glow of the summer sun, felt the patter of April showers, heard the drumbeat of hail, smelt the seasons on the breeze. Smelt all but one, all but winter. Its last wish, its dying wish was to see, hear, taste, touch and smell the last season of the year.
Steadfast and resolute, its purpose no longer to feed the tree with life giving breath, it chose to follow its own path. It clung on to the branch and wouldn't be shaken. No galeforce wind, no driving rain, no frost, no fog, no burning heat would make that leaf let go. It wanted to see snow. Then, as luck would have it, when all the trees stood bald and bare, the weather took a turn. A day of Autumn sun suddenly turned to a biting Winter frost-sharp and arresting. The little leaf, yellow with age, trembled in the chill air. And just as it drew its last gasp a delicate snowflake-brilliant, crystalline white-fluttered from the sky and landed on its tip. Now the leaf let go and like a cradle, it gently floated the snowflake to the ground-it's journey complete.