A Little Autumn Poetry

Nothing in the world has quite the poetry of a leaf flying to the ground. A swarm of thousands flowing sideways in the wind is another glory in itself. There is a beauty in a green leaf falling, which differs from electric reds and yellows descending, followed by a perhaps solemnity of crispy brown ones. Here in early autumn, half the leaves look like shards of stained glass windows falling in slow mo, and the rest are oil paintings of a young hippie artist just discovering psychedelics, who isn’t aware whether he’s awake or dreaming.