leaves are gathering between the pages of my novels and notebooks, yellow, red, veiny, orange, miniature and grand, and they smell musty and grow brittle, breaking off into little pieces and falling again, into my bag, on the ground,

it makes me smile to reach up into a tree, gliding along the lowest slope of branches, and plucking from it one specimen that I find pleasing to my eye.

this morning, as I approached the coffeeshop, dried leaves scattered by wind crunched under my feet, and I found myself drawn into puddles of them, dragging my feet through the collection and watching them fly up at my approach.

I have watched the leaves fall, big ones dropping straight to the sidewalk like anvils and little ones, the size of a fingernail, fluttering in a spin to the ground. It almost looks like it's snowing leaves.

yes.

stine

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