Leaves turn slowly in my neck of the woods,
which are not woods at all, but the streets
of the Capital City I call home,

which makes walking these days so colorful.
In parts more northerly and easterly
their autumn display has already peacocked

its way through the trees, but here it’s just
beginning. Every year, I find myself looking down
at my feet scuffing through leaf litter

that feels like treasure. Though we are far from
New England fall, geographically speaking,
our miniature version nonetheless provides

so much joy. Now I’m daydreaming
folks out with rakes, assembling leaf piles,
whether for the great claw to come along

and scoop up or to leave in a grassy place,
a decomposing pyramid of detritus-to-be,
just waiting for someone—

perhaps a small someone—to stand
back a ways, take a good running leap,
and jump in.