The leaves seem to have taken offense with their tree hosts and are staging a protest by hurling themselves to the ground. This dispute seems to have erupted in my absence, since when I was here a week ago everything was quiet. Maybe in the weeks leading up to this, there were rumblings, whispers of a revolt that was only discussed at night when daylight could not reveal the source.

Which leaf said that?

Who started stirring up trouble?

I heard it was the maples.

We’ll never know.

Regardless, the leaves got fed up and are now beginning to fill the yard, opening up room for more patches of light to come through. They probably didn’t consider this in the calculations, that their forms could block much of anything, but their absence certainly has an impact. If the sun was still strong it would cook their shapes to a crisp, but lucky for them, it’s strength wanes as we tilt further from it and so they lay there, soggy activists forming a crinkled brown rug under the trees, the sunlight illuminating them like a cleverly aimed spotlight.