The temperature shifts quickly with the wind
which now blows dry leaves,
in soft, autumn-scented rustling,
down the street

The leaves that haven’t fallen
soak sun, silent and supple,
butter-smooth against
the china sky

And in between the times
when the industrious homeowner
wields his leaf blower,
It’s quiet, and I hear crickets

When the sun goes down
behind the Flatirons
I’ll seek warmth inside,
Settle, like nestled leaves,
into the evening.

©Wendy Mulhern
October 29, 2014