It’s windy today. A cold and blustery, clear and beautiful, winter day. From my window, I see brown leaves crisply scurrying on earthy paths, as if late for an appointment. The woodsy alternative to a New York sidewalk.
Some crowd and jostle and brawl like unruly children, finally tumbling into a pile of softly whispering sibilance.
Some move along sedately and somberly. Traveling salesmen in brown overcoats topped with brown fedoras, taking their wares door to door. If you open to their susurrant knock, they will come in. There’s no stopping them.
Lone leaves go about rudderless, riding on directionless currents, slowly settling in the oddest places. One rides on the cat’s tail, with long-haired Scruffy oblivious to his new passenger. Some few find a communal holly bush and stay imprisoned there until someone helps them escape.
Gangs of leaves work mischief in eaves and pipes and drains, fomenting pockets of mildew and mold until they are routed out.
I am invaded by leaves. Wind-driven, friendly stalkers who creep before light gusts, headed toward me a step at a time . . . a few inches . . . pause . . . a few feet . . . pause . . . then whirl up toward my window like a laughing dervish to drive me to the out-of-doors.
Now they are nestled on beds of straw, weary from their sprightly busy day, and wait for the wind to come and play with them again; to take them on appointments to anywhere; to dance them down loamy paths known only to themselves.