It was a dark and windy night.

The yellowed leaf was curled like a seal
on the road’s horseshoed curve.

It was quivering, stuck, trying to rear away
from my tired Tahoe; towering,
I slipped the wheel
to pass it’s begging act intact.

Suddenly, the brisky wind threw
a clawed branch-hand into my path!

I crunched its twiggy fist
with the strength of man’s might,
as have all armies in the past,
because I did not like its looks.

What kind of hypocrite
am I?

Erin Elizabeth Kelly-Moen
© Copyright 12/26/03