Dark
leaves fly through December air,
a flock
of birds startled from rest
by
buckshot or the backfire of a car,
the horde
of cold immigrants huddled by a fire
and
driven to the hills by the season of ice.
They are
dressed in the brown garb of monks,
spines
all too visible from fasting in the fall,
who fly
towards God or away from his wind.
We are
the dry, dark leaves, a desperate flock
running
away from entropy, the year, the clock.
We are
the dry leaves.
We are the brown leaves.
We are
the leaves rushing for safe haven.
We are
the leaves.
~William Hammett
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