Then Gone
This morning I walked the dog.
The neighborhood was quiet.
The air was cold,
Or at least as cold as it can get in a sprinkler-fueled necropolis like this one.
The dog wandered from leaf to leaf, from pine cone to pine cone, anomaly to anomaly.
And then a leaf fell.
But it didn’t spiral down onto the ground.
For some reason,
the fates had crafted the leaf so perfectly,
that it flew.
In a straight line it flew all the way to the opposite side of the street like a paper airplane,
then settled to the ground.
Perfect.
And that moment’s gone.
It’ll never come again.
But I guess that’s perfection.
Fleeting.
Accidental.
Comes upon you when walking your dog down an empty street.
Never when you want it.
Never when you need it.
Just a leaf, in the sky, flying over your head.
Then gone.
