Ceaselessly, the air becomes livelier, sharper.
Each little thread of breeze tries to convince the leaves to disband
(from the magnificent tree of which they prefer)
while others are curling around, tumbling over them like sand.

Ceaselessly, they resist but become more astir.
Each little vein is drained of green, left with coral, then sadly tanned.
From the tree they fall—the wind takes hold—all is a blur
while they glide resignedly, slowly down, then alight on land.