1.
It is wet out, and the flattened leaves are pressed to the sidewalks by feet, bike tires, and more rain. When they are forced away from the ground, disturbed either by feet again or a gust of wind, they leave behind a dark grey imprint. They seem to be holding on, in such a human-like manner, to their previous mode of existence. They seek to leave something behind of themselves before they imminently deteriorate. But leaves cannot write a book, nor sculpt out of matter, so they try to hold on in the only manner they know. I always thought that only human beings felt a constant hunger for the past, but today I saw a hungry leaf.
2.
The leaves accumulate in piles on the interest house block, whether by the wind or grounds maintenance (or both), I don't know. The piles stretch from the curb to nearly the houses themselves, creating fat horizontal golden stripes, if one was observing this phenomenon from a bird's point of view. I was walking, approaching these piles, noting how vibrant the yellows, so bright they seemed painted with dyes and chemicals, and a funny thing happened when I found myself in the middle of the piles. The colors, already devilishly burning, flared up into a golden sea of light, and I was beside myself, and it was so beautiful I actually felt choked up. The individual leaves were no longer distinguishable; instead, they melted together into a mound of energy, in the middle of which I stood.
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