It is dark outside,

and snowing.

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.

Look closer.

Leaves, bleeding brightly

and m o v i n g.

How many times do I mistake their skittering –

for a bird,

a mouse,

a squirrel?

All day, I give second glances.

All day, I am delighted by the life in death.

Colleen Sohn