The autumn wind is cold

When I think about autumn, my imagination immediately draws me this landscape: I am standing in some open place: a field or a river bank. The sunset is burning in the distance. A cold and piercing wind bends the old dried-up grass even lower to the ground, scatters the low grasses across the sky, and covers the faces with inaccessibility. The brownish leaves of the trees dance in a frantic dance, rustling with their dryness, and then fall to the ground... But I am standing in a warm jacket, my hands in my pockets are warm, and there is a feeling that I am, as it were, an alien, intangible vision for the whims of nature.