Fall's Frolic

Leaves ready to weigh anchor and sail, once again.

Wind gusts run down the streets and across lawns, like a giant hand combing the sandy bottom of clear water, stirring vortex after vortex of following, eager leaves. Not a cloud in the sky. Herds of orange, red and brown, stampeding as if mustangs across dry, crisp chaparrals.

The cartwheeling sprinters arc curb after curb and some leaves dissolve, pealing apart into eddies of dervish, dusty must. Somewhere, southeast by the weathervane, across the contours of Indiana's fall harvest the wind delivers smokey scents of burning cornstalks.

The wind carries on, this fine afternoon; sailing maple sailors, poplar, ash, and hickory seamen too, past the porch and around the porch again.