I heard a little rustling,
A noisy sort of bustling,
On a cold November morning,
Outside my window light.
Then I looked into the street;
The leaves were on their feet,
Marching, marching onward; no retreat;
The wind had called the fight.
They’d been called on that day,
With others brown and gray,
And the mother tree that nourished them
Now couldn’t bid them nay,
As they scurried and hurried with their might. -eab, 11/1970
After living three falls without seeing or hearing falling leaves (Hobe Sound, Florida) was interested in the sound of wind pushed leaves on an old brick sidewalk in Paris, Ohio. House our apartment was in, was an old stagecoach stop built when Abraham Lincoln was only 15.
Separate-Holy 