I stopped to watch the leaves fall—
not overly sentimental—appreciative
merely of their slow drop through a suspension
of autumn. Of course, leaves fall

every day, but these were so perfectly
straight, so unwavering in their path, like plumb
lines clearing channels to some far-off
shore the wood alone will reach.

There are windy days when they are hawks,
sporting with each sullen thought of wasted
summer and empty sail, of the piles
rustling like vultures at the feet

of trees. It is so tiring. Windswept
and talon-marked, I admire
all things that find the straightest
way down.