Brittle now, the leaves, hanging gold and yellow on trees that seem to transform themselves into dervish. Whirl and spin of color surrounds them with each gust as they make ready to return to the deep root of themselves.

The bare branched tree makes ready to return to root and I am glad to follow.  Glad to leave the skinned surface from which jump threatens.  The confusions and disappointments our species manufactures so very well will do just fine without me and I most willingly leave them to it.  The heart, snugged deep in my chest, calls and I am on my way.

Whirling and spinning, tossing my hair, I move on into the season that promises a return to the bowel of  the heart where the beat goes on.  And on.