I have seen tree leaves twist in the air as they dance to meet the earth—
Brown, some red, some still green, but all rushing to touch the ground.
The floor is littered; a gathering of old and fresh tree leaves lies on the dirt.
And why they fall, they won’t say, but when they do, they seem extremely glad.

Apples and much citrus hang from branches, dangling in the soft air.
The wind pushes fine dust up to meet the fruits, powdering their faces.
When the apples hang on the branch, they gossip about the tree leaves that sail.
They are happy with the Wind and her queer entourage of fine dust.

Morning sun, the herald of a new day, of a new beginning and new tidings,
rises from the hills behind, throwing her colorful hues upon the sleepy town.
In her might, she draws, casts, and paints the people, flora, and fauna—everything,
enjoying moments as she passes falling tree leaves, ones that sail through the clouds.