Near the top of Three Maid’s Hill, in the din of russet pavements, light pierced like a diamond, caught the edge of purposeless leaves.
Whipped them, wild. Clattering up in eddies, delirious, absent-minded in the disturbed air between cars.
And it was my eyes which soothed them, which held them as we passed by. As though I were unique, as though the retina stain from a low flying sun could only belong to me.
The hill smiled, outlived me and everyone else, until all that remained were my thoughts, thinking. And may I be a memory of this place.
Our wheels were long gone. Leaves settled in the drains, they bunched up, held on tight to each other.
They knew what to do.