The Fall of Fall

Leaves litter our yard while I

Contemplate the chaos in the news,

Illogical random acts and words,

that seem to chip away at our fiber,

igniting the tender tinder of our collective selves.

Does the roaming coyote know about

the bombings? Do the blue jays worry

about the faith-shaken? Does the wind

cry or simply dry the tears of the bereaved?

A million leaves keep falling in the breeze.

Tricolor hues light up while media spins

political views; I walk out to the river

and gaze up the valley at the fall colors

twisting play-wistfully high in the treetops.

Within a moment I forget

how utterly fallen I felt at the news.

When the towers went down,

I was not afraid. Just like with this.

There is not fear, but sadness–and shame

for the unkind reactions of the masses

and the murderous actions of misguided men.

And the wind rustles the bay and walnut limbs,

and  I move about my yard unscathed

in utter tranquility that so often is taken

for granted by the millions who raise their fists

and shout, “Revenge.”

As I turn to retreat inside, my beagle

howls and the pondering squirrel

scampers away.

The wind blows red and the fall leaves break from their branches and dance downward toward the river's disturbed surface.
The wind blows red and the fall leaves break from their branches and dance downward toward the river’s undisturbed surface.
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