The smell of leaves, simultaneously dry and damp, takes me back to my walks to grade school almost fifty years ago.
Robins pull dry fruit from the crab apple trees.
Children are playing across the street in the school yard. Girl in Pink, obviously the leader of all Girls in Pink points finger at girl in Not Pink: “We won’t play with you if you keep doing that!”
House wrens swarm up from goldenrod seeds along the bank of a rain swollen creek.
The sky toward the city is glowing as if the sun is setting in mid afternoon.
The clouds ahead are low, gray and in waves, as if the ocean has turned upside down and frozen solid.
The sidewalk at my turning point beckons for me to continue on, but there is too much to do back in my beige cubicle so I turn around.
Past the playground again. The girl in Not Pink is sitting near the teachers. The whistle blows and all the children run toward the school.
A worn out orange basketball sits on the sidewalk just ahead of me. I lob it back over the fence into the playground.
Back past the woods where lots of golds and reds are still glowing deep in the protected interior.
Something runs along the leave covered floor beneath the trees sounding larger than it actually is.
A runner dressed in purple approaches from behind, flat footed feet slapping the sidewalk.
Ears are cold.
I climb up the three flights of stairs to my beige cubicle.
Sweating.
Change Is Hard 