The clouds sit low on our heads, white becoming dark becoming black. The leaves of the high trees rustle gently Then with accelerating desperation -- acorns falling on us sheets of leaves floating to our feet. The rustling calms, the sun tries to break through But again the clouds deepen, darken And the leaves' rustling resounds in the air: Harbringer of chaos, Forerunner of change, Nature in all her energy, Heralding our powerlessnes, Even in our consuming strength, Refreshing our souls.
©2009 John A. Mills