Fall

Adorned with fall's first rain, Men of mystery Face each other. Heads tilted down, In the terse winds. Casual nods by necessity Their demeanor Is anything but calm. Faces fast losing color, Words never losing edge. 'Take down the root', one said. 'He's the one that matters.' 'But we'll die for sure.' 'What's the point, When we're fated for Death anyway?' Futile conversation persists As the hooded Looked on. He drew his weapon, Thinking their last thought: Leaves don’t talk.