The wind parts the leaves
like a hand brushing back a curtain,
yellow and diaphanous in
the low tide of the sun.
There they are,
the Ash and cottonwood,
the young maple,
long bands of light
tethered in the furrows of
their bark.
Their leaves are coaxed loose,
and they fall
as slow as particles of dust.
The light thickens,
turning in on itself,
and the leaves wait
in soft silence
for the blossom of rust.