Chautauqua, Boulder

The temperature shifts quickly with the wind

which now blows dry leaves,

in soft, autumn-scented rustling,

down the street

The leaves that haven’t fallen

soak sun, silent and supple,

butter-smooth against

the china sky

And in between the times

when the industrious homeowner

wields his leaf blower,

It’s quiet, and I hear crickets

When the sun goes down

behind the Flatirons

I’ll seek warmth inside,

Settle, like nestled leaves,

into the evening.

©Wendy Mulhern

October 29, 2014