Falling Leaves

A sonnet

Photo by William J Spirdione

I look out of the window at the birds.
Their silence told me of a season past.
The birds, they are, still flittering about.
But quiet as a pile of leaves amassed.

The leaves start falling fast, my eyes perceive.
I run outside to see what’s all the fuss.
The silver maple’s dropping all its leaves,
Small children in their first snowfall are us.

I stand amidst squirrels, birds and rabbit.
I feel the leaves as they fall on my hair.
Falling leaves, the maelstrom, we inhabit.
In minutes, the entire old tree was bare.

In these troubled days, nature will construe.
Do animals feel the same joy we do?