Their numbers are overwhelming
golden and brown transversing my path.
I abandon every one in each step forward.
Green lives, lived,finally
fallen to the battlefield of my morning walk,
some burning red, the last fire extinguished.
Others are dry and crisp,
burnt toast of maples,
drifting and rolling as Mariah scoots them.
Is it the wind;
or are these pointy little corpses
positioning for Halloween tricks?