Skimming the Surface

A stressful day, several different job sites. To catch my breath, I head to a local park. Over 100 years old, this park often draws me with its hidden benches and its tree-lined trails. I sit down and prepare to relax. A house that abuts the park is having some work done—machinery whirring and grating. Then, the parks people fire up the leafblowers. I am convinced that the orchestra in Hell will consist of a variety of leafblowers. I get up and move to the other side of the park.

Here, at a very secluded bench, I finally have my peace and quiet. It is so quiet I can hear the unique sound of the last leaves pattering to the ground from the increasingly bare tree branches. In the thicket next to me a little bird grouses and chirps, flicking his tail and landing on every branch in the bush as if taking stock of his holdings.

At my feet I hear a rustle in the fallen leaves. An enormous earthworm, perhaps a nightcrawler, is propelling his shining length through the grass. Watching him seems an eternity as he unconcernedly travels on, an underworld creature skimming the surface world.

Liminal Leaves

It was cold yesterday, and so dark. I felt it deep in my marrow, the coming of winter. But the leaves, which were late in turning this year, have been spectacular, their brightness an echo of the sun that once powered them. I walked in the hills of the city and witnessed the indescribable beauty of the leaves as they fell, detaching from their tree homes and drifting to the ground, aloft for one brief, shining moment before their descent into decomposition.

They fell behind me as I walked; the noise they made was like the footsteps of ghosts.