In the morning hours, when the rushing cars are not quite capable
Of drowning out the stillness, left over from night.
Leaves still green from summer's warmth have a hue underneath,
Snapshot in time, caught between colours .
The breeze picks up and the song begins, a melody of aging.
The tune sung when starting out towards the darkness of winter.
The path towards darkness is called autumn, and the trees cry,
They begin to lose their leaves bit by bit, the rustle of the death rattle
Or do they rejoice? Are they exclaiming joyfully the inescapable passage
From green to gold to emptiness? Letting go willingly?
Sounds of celebration, thousands of trees, bushes and hedges.
Grasses and flowers, swaying and dancing, the sound increasing upon the arrival of autumns breath.
The birds join chorus and proclaim the end of summer with vigor and honesty.
The wind rises and wraps around me, and I wear it while homeward bound.