The leaves clatter like the beads of an abacus:
brittle as cowrie shells,
long abandoned by once-soft tissue
though drybone fingers still cling to rough branches.
The green flow of their lives have budded bloomed colored and dispersed
out across the winter prairies, yet a few still dot the trees:
relics to the macabre truth that in a month a week a day or a moment
the wind will come sweep sad musicians away.
12/28/2013
Niwot, Colorado
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