High among these branches,
autumn breezes dally
with the leaves, which crinkle
in the wind (like pages
waxed with scarlet-orange).
Overhead a sparrow
grooms her feathers, sheltered
by a leaf (discretely).
Gently I extend my finger
toward her creamy under-
side, but she – offended –
flutters off the branchlet.
My foot slips
and I let go
falling
into leaves that smell like
mildewed, musty pamphlets,
drying sunlight, cedar
chests embalmed in balsam,
pots of potpourri…
The sparrow (disappearing
into the bronze horizon)
baffles gravity –
and in this soggy dirt where
earthworms wriggle, I wonder
why leaves (and people) are always
falling, never flying.
