Emile Courthoud

The Wind

The leaves start to fall.
Red, yellow and brown.
A mosaic is forming on the ground.

A whisper ripples through the air.
The leaves begin to dance.
Two steps forward. One on the left. Then forward again.

A leaf leaps high into the air.
High up, close to the sky.
Blending in with the colors of the sunset.

A gentle voice accompanies it.
A voice with no name.
A voice with no face.

The voice starts to hum.
First quietly.
Then louder. And louder.

A voice of change.

The mosaic is gone.
Nevertheless.
Another leaf begins to fall.