It is dark outside,
The garden white, light climbing skyward.
Dark silhouettes, one of them moves.
A rabbit, eating snow, scratching an itch.
For a time, the leaves are silenced, lying in their soft beds.
I have always thought of fall as a time of dying,
the beginning of stillness.
Leaves, bleeding brightly
and m o v i n g.
How many times do I mistake their skittering –
for a bird,
All day, I give second glances.
All day, I am delighted by the life in death.