Autumn Leaves

by violingrace

Autumn leaves are born mid-air, between the whistling of the wind and onto the brown mass of earth. First, they clip off from their limbs, then rustle as they tumble down, and finally give a wee crunch of satisfaction as they join their fallen comrades. Autumn leaves drop in loose rhythm; they don’t attempt to match the chirps and buzzes of the forest.

I biked along the forest with these autumn leaves. It was late afternoon, early evening, and a beautiful temperature of cool. There was a grand desire for me to understand something by travelling through the forest, but how to flesh out a conclusion if the introduction hadn’t been agreed upon? I was being naive, I was being stubborn, I was being like every human who wanted to indulge in his or her own little world of uncertainty.

It is easy to live in the world within myself. My laws, my expectations. I may steer left towards the river bend if I choose. Or, I may simply continue on the path that will eventually lead to a right turn.

Here, I arrived at a wooden bench. I wouldn’t have been surprised if you told me a lightning bolt had spit on its surface; the bench looked weak and buckling. I did not sit on a bench but rather chose to wander around its surroundings, grasses and shrubs sitting lowly on the ground. I picked a particularly entrancing handful of violet leaves, and gingerly tucked it in the pocket of jacket.

It is obvious that the pedals of my bike do not break off from my bicycle, that my jacket does not dissolve into a puddle of plastic. My mind, though wandering, always leaves space for coherent remarks. And so, I am given this magic. When I am sick of wondering, I decide, and when I am sick of deciding, I wonder. I decide I will go talk to him; I wonder if he will answer me. See, magic.

I stepped on many leaves that late afternoon, early evening. They did not protest; they could not protest. They simply continued falling, with a click, rustle, crunch. Whistling in the wind, onto the brown mast which we call earth. I dug my hand in my pocket and felt the tips of the violet plant. And so as I stood still, I watched on – time swallowing the autumn leaves.

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