The leaves
on the branches
of the trees
are doodling —
fiddling around
with the nearby air.
They don’t know
what to do —
are waiting
for some signal
that would make
their motions
serious and
less mysterious
than now.
I don’t know
what to think
as I try to read
the message
of the wind.
I cannot tell you
any thing at all
about a changing.

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