October 27, 2007

Leaf play

Skroush, skroush, skroush. The leaves stretch before me in an endless pile. Driven there by the wind current. Broken only by the occasional car next to the curb buried to mid hubcap. A cornucopia of vibrant earth. Each nestled into the right place to create a visual maze I can't follow with my eye. Pale to dark yellows, tans, burnt sienna, rich wine burgundy. All meld together to make my own yellow brick road. There is a welcome warmth on my neck as I look upon my long thin shadow.

The slightly musty smell of the decay rich in my nostrils. The breeze tousles my too long brown hair. I'm overdue for the 'cut'. Somehow I've avoided mothers grinding scissors and the glass bowl she uses to guide her hand. I glance down as my feet emerge from the leaves. My red laced hiking boots and the bottoms of my faded jeans covered with bits of ground leaves. Small scatterings of different colors. Here a bit of vibrant maple leaf, there a smidgeon of oak.

I enter another long pile, my ears enveloped in the luxurious skroush of the leaves against each other. I kick at them and laugh as the more hearty leaves scatter at my touch. Not unlike goldfish in a pond rush away from a dipping hand. They clatter and scrape at the bare street, grasping for a hold. A look behind shows my disruption of natures pattern. The furrows in the long piles and the bursts of color dotting the street where I have spread them in my enthusiasm. It doesn't move me from my path. The draw of the skroush is something that comes only once a year.


At 6:03 PM, Blogger Buffalo said...

Memories. Not necessarily a bad thing.

At 8:03 AM, Blogger buddha_girl said...

I took a walk with my son yesterday...surrounded by garnet, puce, and ochre leaves. He scrounged in piles still left by the sidewalk, and I positively glowed when I saw the lines of dirt beneath his fingernails.

Excellent post.

At 9:42 AM, Blogger Think Frustrated said...

Skroush is the perfect onomotopoeia to describe that unique crunch of leaves underfoot. Thank you.


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