Golden leaves

The golden leaf had beautiful ocher yellow, red and brown tones in its life. It may sound almost musical, and somehow it is. Poets see in the beginning not always color, ideas and music as separate phenomena. Only when the causal existence merges into ethereal shape, and later is described by words, it gets the personal expression. Then looks the form of course different from the first appearance but the relationship is there if you have done a good job.

The leaf had just shaken loose from the parent tree branches. The humid late summer wind came whistling and offered free ride with guided sightseeing. It could not offer a specific destination because its schedule was too diffuse. But the direction it had, and were you okay with it, you might as well accept the generous offer, now you belonged to the leaf avant-garde, which was slightly ahead of the time, and therefore also regarded as a bit to one side

It hissed, filled with anticipation, along the sidewalk. When observing the tiles from a distance of about human eye level, they looked nicely smooth, apart from the grooves of course. But from the leaf’s angle of view, the tiles regularly uneven, calculated to evoke the distinctive sound, like withered leaves run along the sidewalk tiles creates.

"You frightened me," exclaimed a lizard, which tried to get a siesta on a gentle rise between the sidewalk and the hedge. "Couldn't you come a little quieter forward?"

"Dear friend," exclaimed the gold leaf. "I was totally absorbed in my last dance, and the west wind has a personnel rhythm that moves me. It is he who leads, and I follow both his music, mischief and digress. I suppose you figure that I dance like the wind blows, but I will speak up and tell it like it is:

I'm almost done with my life here on earth and passes to the universal libraries archives, but before my last dance is over, I will just tell you that your tail is on its own excursion and wriggles apparently gratuitous, almost as if it's trying to find a dance rhythm. When the lights are switched on street and road, I guess I dance my last dance. I will become soft, log out, and what happens next, only God knows.

I only know what I believe, and I doubt what I know.

Well, as mentioned, I'm a little early, for the summer is fortunately not quite over yet. But someone has to lead. Now the beat changed agaim, and the west wind blows himself up. Be seeing you perhaps, when the scene is changed, and we are rouged into new roles. The script is already written in broad terms, but we are not more bound by it than there is room for improvisations.”