The wind ushered past their mingled bodies – pushing them closer together, further apart; twisting the branches they clung to so delicately. This time, none fell. These were the first winds of autumn, and all but one had chameleoned into a pale gold.
The wind struck again. Three fell silently, landing several meters away, where they dangled for a moment before being swallowed by a hungry bush.
Only one survived. Even through winter.
Spring returned, and while new ones grew, the sole survivor told tales of that devastating autumn.
Then, one day, after the tree had regained its beautiful green overcoat, and all its new occupants were aware of the dangers to come, the one that had survived it all came to its timely end, falling calmly onto a bed of flowers.
I guess my feathers are just as delicate as the leaves on that tree. They seem to hold better in strong winds though.
Every morning this past autumn, I watched the tree opposite mine lose its leaves. There was only one diehard.
I went away during winter – a little too cold for my likes in this region this time of year.
When I returned late spring, the tree was a happy shade of green again. Except for the diehard leaf, which had aged. It seemed to have been waiting for something. For what, I wouldn’t know; I’m an owl, not a leaf.
It fell from the tree this morning. Made me a little sad. Makes me wonder when I’ll fall off my tree.
Copyright © 2002 by Karin Pinter