Leaves. They’re everywhere. Floating in the air, blowing along the roadway, scattering from trees like disoriented flocks of large, angry birds. They fill our driveway and our two lots, so many that a thousand large leaf bags would contain only a fraction of what’s there.  

I’ve used my leaf-blower twice to make way for foot traffic on the front porch, blowing leaves into the woods beside and behind my house.  It seems an unending battle, but one I welcome; I like the leaves.  They will, eventually, become part of the soil, feeding beasts that need such stuff; nutrients born of decomposition and decay.

About John Swinburn

"Love not what you are but what you may become."― Miguel de Cervantes
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