Wind edges in, rushing twigs and branches
enough that more leaves are forced to let go.
Lying on my back, I cringe as more bodies
sway and tack.   Sail down, sail down
to join the fallen.   Many comrades brown.
So many pile, what is one?   Except. . .
unless. . .you’re a leaf?   Suddenly see wrens
bombed from their nests and marched to a front.
See how they fall.  See how they fall.  Shriek
of ever-building winds once again hobbles
wings and limbs.  Binds them to sides and heads,
sends them out in the cold.  Leaves, knowing
they may be too battered to hang on.  Fought
too hard and too long.  So many fall
right off  that  others lose their footing
or get so sad and muddled, they can’t lift.
Too-often-soaked, too-often-starved-and-thirsting,
too-often-robbed-of-friends.  Gun-crack/ratatat-
deaf and phosphorous-blind, cannot recognize
their own flesh.  Every bone aches, and the down
that is supposed to protect sweats to a mat,
scabs away.   What choice but to give up.
Succumb to fatigue.   So many are going -- know
they are going -- to die.     After all, other bodies
got piled or lost before their season.  Other bodies
did not have time to drift, but were ripped to shreds
in place.  Not a feather to be seen.  Happens as we lie.
Others, weapons rained fire on – are raining on --
until they were knocked off – are knocked off  – or
broke.    Break,  leaving minds free to contemplate
the cost.  Work at recalling those for whom crosses
raise and flags fold, but who like the leaves,
some would have us ignore.  
This particular show is over.   Better get up.
Do something.