thruthescreen
They smell of old dreams, those leaves—old dreams, dried crisp and curled at the edges. I know which tree cast them loose; you can see it through the window. But what unruly, fickle breeze could have carried them this far, to collect here on this windowsill, to scuff up against this screen, sounding like the yellowed fingernails of lazy ghosts?
There’s no message here. No portent or omen, good or ill. Just a reminder that the world is wondrous strange and filled with patterns we can only pretend to understand. The leaves would have fallen from the tree regardless, the breeze would have blown regardless, and it’s just happenstance that when these leaves fell the breeze carried them all the long way from that tree to this window. The improbably complex physical dynamics involved in that journey were indifferent to whatever was happening on the other side of the window.
So we sit here, listening to the rustle of the leaves, sipping coffee, looking out the window, looking at that tree. Leaves are meant to fall. Nobody can predict where they’ll come to rest. That’s just the way it is, on both sides of the window.
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