There are so few of them
at first
a mere rustle
on the wind with
just a hint of red
or gilt along their edges,
and the mother woods
are still green,
and the sun still spills
its molten light
on upturned faces;
no one worries
if a few are falling—
they are simply
grace notes,
wisps of portent,
though soon they turn
acrobatic
showing their bellies
to the breeze,
soon a few more
wordlessly
shake loose—early soldiers
of the season,
no smoke yet,
no raging flames
of color.
But make no mistake,
something is coming
to an end.
