By the time I stepped outside, the leaves were on fire. I hadn’t watched them change, so the orange was sudden, shocking. I had spent the summer at my keyboard, in the stale air of a fairytale, in the perpetual perfection of a well-constructed story. But life changes. The light tilts. Blackberries rot. And the smell of cold dirt permeates even the most naive of fortresses. The leaves, bright and dying, were lovely.
I rushed back inside for a sweater. I chose a baggy thing, made from light brown wool. It was plainly knit and a little itchy. Carefully, I descended the steps that led out into the avenue of burning trees. Life is a never ending series of edges. It’s the hovering, the cautious waiting, that makes it real. I filled my lungs with taut decaying air. But before I had even made it onto the dirt road, I started to cry. I cried for my broken fairytale. I cried because I knew I could never capture the beauty of the temporary. I cried because my dialog with God wasn’t going so well. The universe could be domineering in its bluntness, in its subtlety.
I looked up, into the dancing, the fire. “Hello, lovely leaves.” I smiled, wiping away the tears with my scratchy sweater. “Shall we walk?”
The wind animated their whispering: Only if you can catch us.
I swung my arms, bounding forward. It was a chase! I skidded across the mud and grass-stained my pants. My soft smile transformed into a feral grin. The air thickened, sharpened, and my sweater grew heavy and hot. But, finally, tangled in sweat and joy, I caught a glowing ember. I held it with fierce pride, my finger tracing its delicate curves. We danced. And after, I slipped the little red flame into my pocket.
After my exuberance, I walked steadily to the stile at the end of the road. The neighbor's sheep greeted me through the fence. In a fit of passion, I hopped over the stile. On the empty grass, I removed my shoes. The smell of wet dirt was stronger here: deep and living and solitary. I pushed past the sheep. My hands against their voluminous coats, I felt the round warmth of their movement, of their stubborn plodding.
I decided to follow them for a while. They moved slowly, munching on the exquisite green grass. In a loose group, they traveled with vague, senseless direction. I attempted to mirror their lackadaisical ways, but I was too impatient, I was too human. The flock found its way to the edge of a ravine. I smiled. I thought we had been heading towards the river. I waved goodbye to the sheep. They turned and started walking in the opposite direction.
Carrying my shoes, I slid down the muddy slope. On the edge of the water was a new set of trees, a new set of leaves. The willows were solemn and quiet and swaying, but the oaks burned in defiance of the grey water. I rested my back against the biggest tree I could find. It held me as I stared into the river. I was wonderfully cold again. For a brief moment, I regretted not bringing a book. But, instead, to ease the beginnings of a nagging boredom, I picked up a fallen leaf and read its dry veins.
Last spring, the leaf had become big. It had stretched and folded into something intricate. The long dry months of summer had solidified its form, flattening it. I decided that yesterday It had finally fallen: a stalwart tree-piece that would soon decompose into the whole. I almost tucked the leaf into my pocket, but stopped. That would be stealing. It was not a leaf I had caught.
I walked to the river. I squeezed the sleeves of my sweater and crouched next to the moving grey. A few bright leaves flew downstream, toward the sea. With a quick hand, I punctured the fast moving water. I snatched an orange maple leaf like a bear snatches its fish. This one, I stashed in my pocket; this one, I had caught.
With wet wild hands, I climbed a tree. I pulled my muscles and scratched my skin. I mounted the world. At the top, with powerful eyes, I followed the thin silver thread of the river to where it met the clouds.
Back on the ground, I warmed my frozen fingers against my chest. turning towards my house, my precious hole, I left the river. I slipped on the slope. The sheep followed me to the gate. I climbed over the stile. The dirt road took me home. And the trees, with their flame leaves, burned. As I closed my door, the wind brought forth their laughing insides.
I retreated into my room. I sat down on my chair and placed my hands on my keyboard. I wove a moment, deep within my story, where the protagonist, wet and cold, happens upon a fire. She worships it not only for its comfort, but for the very fact that it is burning.
I rushed back inside for a sweater. I chose a baggy thing, made from light brown wool. It was plainly knit and a little itchy. Carefully, I descended the steps that led out into the avenue of burning trees. Life is a never ending series of edges. It’s the hovering, the cautious waiting, that makes it real. I filled my lungs with taut decaying air. But before I had even made it onto the dirt road, I started to cry. I cried for my broken fairytale. I cried because I knew I could never capture the beauty of the temporary. I cried because my dialog with God wasn’t going so well. The universe could be domineering in its bluntness, in its subtlety.
I looked up, into the dancing, the fire. “Hello, lovely leaves.” I smiled, wiping away the tears with my scratchy sweater. “Shall we walk?”
The wind animated their whispering: Only if you can catch us.
I swung my arms, bounding forward. It was a chase! I skidded across the mud and grass-stained my pants. My soft smile transformed into a feral grin. The air thickened, sharpened, and my sweater grew heavy and hot. But, finally, tangled in sweat and joy, I caught a glowing ember. I held it with fierce pride, my finger tracing its delicate curves. We danced. And after, I slipped the little red flame into my pocket.
After my exuberance, I walked steadily to the stile at the end of the road. The neighbor's sheep greeted me through the fence. In a fit of passion, I hopped over the stile. On the empty grass, I removed my shoes. The smell of wet dirt was stronger here: deep and living and solitary. I pushed past the sheep. My hands against their voluminous coats, I felt the round warmth of their movement, of their stubborn plodding.
I decided to follow them for a while. They moved slowly, munching on the exquisite green grass. In a loose group, they traveled with vague, senseless direction. I attempted to mirror their lackadaisical ways, but I was too impatient, I was too human. The flock found its way to the edge of a ravine. I smiled. I thought we had been heading towards the river. I waved goodbye to the sheep. They turned and started walking in the opposite direction.
Carrying my shoes, I slid down the muddy slope. On the edge of the water was a new set of trees, a new set of leaves. The willows were solemn and quiet and swaying, but the oaks burned in defiance of the grey water. I rested my back against the biggest tree I could find. It held me as I stared into the river. I was wonderfully cold again. For a brief moment, I regretted not bringing a book. But, instead, to ease the beginnings of a nagging boredom, I picked up a fallen leaf and read its dry veins.
Last spring, the leaf had become big. It had stretched and folded into something intricate. The long dry months of summer had solidified its form, flattening it. I decided that yesterday It had finally fallen: a stalwart tree-piece that would soon decompose into the whole. I almost tucked the leaf into my pocket, but stopped. That would be stealing. It was not a leaf I had caught.
I walked to the river. I squeezed the sleeves of my sweater and crouched next to the moving grey. A few bright leaves flew downstream, toward the sea. With a quick hand, I punctured the fast moving water. I snatched an orange maple leaf like a bear snatches its fish. This one, I stashed in my pocket; this one, I had caught.
With wet wild hands, I climbed a tree. I pulled my muscles and scratched my skin. I mounted the world. At the top, with powerful eyes, I followed the thin silver thread of the river to where it met the clouds.
Back on the ground, I warmed my frozen fingers against my chest. turning towards my house, my precious hole, I left the river. I slipped on the slope. The sheep followed me to the gate. I climbed over the stile. The dirt road took me home. And the trees, with their flame leaves, burned. As I closed my door, the wind brought forth their laughing insides.
I retreated into my room. I sat down on my chair and placed my hands on my keyboard. I wove a moment, deep within my story, where the protagonist, wet and cold, happens upon a fire. She worships it not only for its comfort, but for the very fact that it is burning.
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