Catching my eye as I strolled slowly along the path, from just above and to the right, there was a momentary blinking of the sun.  A leaf danced across from the tree-shaded background through the shafts of light and then back into shade again, as it continued its earthbound descent.  Swirling, gliding down, then caught by a wisp of wind, so light as not to even be felt, it thrust upward briefly, fighting for more time, or was it a more exciting ride, now dipping and flipping and rising again on its first and last journey.   A journey away from the home where it had been cradled and cared for from a bud to the majestic colorful masterpiece that it now was.

All too soon, it descended the last few inches, and then with one last twist and turn, touched down with the curled tip of one edge. Sliding across a cushion of pine needles it came to rest with others who marked the same destination from an earlier arrival.   The wind was low and only whispering.   The forest stood guard, protecting and absorbing the quiet like the covering of a blanket snugly tucked in all four corners.  Because of this silence, I heard the last rustle and death rattle of the unknowing leaf.  Unsuspecting, the leaf could not detect any change, other than the light snap as it was detached and whisked away by the gentle fall wind, from the only location it had known since birth.  It still felt young and exuberant.  It was, remember, in full color, strong and fresh, and anticipating new adventures in this most recent change of events.  But life had already begun draining from the fibers of its body, even before being snatched away and sent aloft to land here.  Yes, it was only a matter of time before its "coat of many colors" would begin to fade and a brown drabness would set in, moving and contorting its body to an involuntary position.  Soon it would begin to roll up, turning into itself, preparing from instinct to die and return to the ground. 

But, unknown to the leaf, for it had no way of foreseeing the transitions of nature; it would offer itself in a last bequest, as nutrients for the tree that it once called home.  Other leaves, yet unborn until spring arises in mighty triumph once again, would draw from this life, as new buds passing through the metamorphic process to carry on the legacy and beauty of an ancestor unknown.

Mike Anderson

Oct./2001