Mille Feuilles (Lunch Crunch)

Curled leaves, dried leaves, dead and dying as the trees change their diet for Winter.  A breeze, not freezing, blows on the base of my skull.  My feet stand firm, the trees shake their smaller twigs but the leaves on the ground stay still.

An Autumn is upon the colour of everything.  The mulch-fodder brown, or yellow; the grass a twilight green, though yet it is not much past lunch.

A tree I lean against to write this is firm on my upper left arm.  The smallest one around, about my thigh's width, it twists and turns to several times my height.

Invisible birds cheep and swoop.  A bike behind me groans to a stop; students kick the leaves - toddlers once more; a family watch their child play, indulgent and separate somehow.

The park's vista is denuded of its Summertime impromptu fiesta.

The sky waits.