Zoe Guillory

And the window flew open.
A cool breeze sucked in like the soft
melody of a concert flute,
the buzz of dead leaves dissonant.
They tumbled down.
Out of the sky, swirling in the dust
under the trees. They were brown.
Dry. Absent of Life. Black.
A few still desperately clung
to the trees' branches, until
the wind dragged them down.