21 Days From My Window
Outside my window, the great, golden tree stands silently in the glare of the morning sun. His leaves already falling, he is barer than yesterday. Soon he will arch his naked branches over the houses he guards and his leaves will only be a memory of Autumn’s glory days. The Bradford pear trees are solemn as well, standing guard at their respective posts. Where yesterday they were orange and brilliant, now the undersides of their leaves are showing through like gray hair on the head of a middle aged man. Pale yellows peek through the oranges, and their dark shadows stretch across a blanket of dry, pale grass.
Even the pampas grass stands by, quiet and pale in the morning light. No leaves are chasing each other down the street. Instead they rest along the curb of the driveway. A smashed paper cup lies in the middle of the road. Its usefulness has passed, and now it has been broken and discarded, like so many leaves and twigs scattered across my neighbor’s lawn. A black and white cat tiptoes slowly across the street. She stops to sniff at random leaves, the cup, and the pale grass, before she moves on in search of something more interesting.
Even the dogs in my back yard give only a half-hearted yelp and growl as the cat passes by. They sound as though they want to lie in the last bit of morning sunshine and wait for more exciting things to happen. As I turn from my window to go, not even the flag lifts itself to wave goodbye. Though nothing is listening, I whisper, “See you tomorrow.”