Forethought

Fragments of ice tumble from overcast skies,

creating a sound of static

as they collect on the fallen layer of leaves.

Chattering from millions of midnight teeth.

An oak stands alone in an empty field,

foliage bristling in a pompous display

of his newfound seasonal clothing,

deep ocher and rust-red in the morning mist.

All foliage celebrates its emancipation

from summer drudgery,

relishing the coming change.

They will be stripped of their finery

by silent winds in the night.

But for now, they glow with afternoon ebullience.

They blush and sway, billowing with their cloaks

of fine colors. 

They are drunk on the present.