A solitary oak leaf flutters down on a tempestuous wind. Its oak tree of origin stands many yards away. I’ve always loved when the wind is like that, transporting objects through the air for great distances, and depositing them in yards where puzzled finders like myself happen upon them. Somewhere, and I haven’t even figured out where, a birch tree stands that has had its caterpillar-like strands of blossoms carried into our backyard, where no birch tree resides. It gives wonder to the world when we think we know it all.
On this day, it’s the brown oak leaf that captures my rapt attention. One leaf among many that decided to jump into the wind, it does its quick dance before dropping to the ground. It joins its brethren, shades of brown upon brown, some of them torn and almost shredded, some mostly intact save for a few tears or holes, and some in various states of disintegration and degradation, never to be put back together again. The ground floor of fall is a tattered and largely broken collection of bits and pieces. So the earth gives and takes in its yearly cycle.
The wind is strong and disagreeably unpredictable. It zigs when you are preparing for it to zag, and it appears when you least want it, wreaking havoc with dust in the eyes or the absolute worst parting of the hair. Impossible to navigate or manipulate, it is a cruel wind, tossing the grass heads here and there, bending them to its wayward will. There is no peace on this day.
Even when the sun finally decides to appear, it barely makes a difference, and then it is gone.
