November Sidewalk

They had long since cascaded down to the sidewalk.
This early February wind was overkill.
The leaves knew their place now was not in the branches,
that their time had passed.
The entire journey is so very short. 
From the first speck of green,
to the noisy hard blown ride on the concrete
it was only a matter of months. 
Ours is so much the same. 
From inception to peak to fall,
in a time that is mere moments to the world.
But everything to us. 
Along that journey we hope to make an impact,
a lasting impression. 
Forge some way of going beyond what we know to be our end.
We try treatments, surgeries; grow children and foundations.
We build and paint and write and plan.
We spend so much of our lives fighting the inevitable fall from the branch.
Religions, Gods, Hospitals, dreams-- all designed to soften that landing.
Or deny it. 
The pace along the avenue quickens,
the cold wind is battering now. 
I hunker into a ball, pull up the scarf to shield my face from this
much too soon arrival of winter's howl. 
But behind me those leaves continue, pushed across the asphalt and cobblestones.
Do they forget that this is the end?
Don't they realize that the best days have passed? 
That what will come is not the red and orange and green of their prime,
but an end that is certain and already started. 
I pause at the light on the corner, waiting to cross between the hurried people; hurried cabs and hurried frightened futures.
For a moment the neighborhood is silent and I can hear everything and nothing.   
And I swear from here,
It sounds like those leaves are dancing.