For some writers, autumn is a difficult season to describe. On one hand, it is the end of the summer, and therefore a little sad. American writer Ernest Hemingway wrote in his book A Moveable Feast (《流动的盛宴》): “You expected to be sad in the fall. Part of you died each year when the leaves fell from the trees and their branches (树枝) were bare (光秃秃的) against the wind and the cold, wintry (冬天的) light.”