Leaf burning

early Sunday morning

disturbs no one barring

the leaves themselves who

tumble compliantly to

death.

Smoke plumes waft by

windows shut against cool

morning air; a neighbor at tea

might glance up from the

news of yesterday’s calamities –

all is silent.

I stand guard – my metal rake

also a sentry against intruders –

we the only witnesses: no town

square, no heretics, no pleas for mercy

this blue smoky morn.

The search for released seeds brings

blue wings down, red chests echo

earlier flames now turned to

semi-ash; only sighs of gray

drift upward.

Higher still a beverage service is being

offered – doubtful my smoke

signals seen from such a pass:

have I sent vulgarity

into the atmosphere?

At noon all is gray – the sentries gone in

to books or billiards or a smoke

(well, probably not) –

enough evidence

remains until dusk.