The Race
In the short race
from the trees to the ground,
the yellow leaves are winning,
at least this round.
The pine needles seem distracted,
looking here and there,
not concerned, playing and dancing
in the air.
The wind eggs them on,
whistling a tune.
Autumn's trees will be bare
all too soon.
Some of them are fast,
some of them are slow
as they tumble t'ward the ground
like colourful snow.
Red, yellow and green,
dancing on a breeze,
the race from tree to ground
beckons all the leaves.
Yellow leaves are winning,
at least this round,
in their short race,
from the trees to the ground.
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