Windy Sunday Morning

It is warm outside. My kitchen window is open, letting in the active air and the grumpy sound of the creaking fence. The wind is pushing the fence back and forth. I think of kids on a swing, pushed by their mothers. The tall fir tree that stands next to my little trailer is vigorously waving its' branches, getting my attention. It tells me to go outside. Go outside, Roberto, go. I feel a wave of sleepy sadness. The years' last maple leaves shiver in the wind. Every so often the tree lets one go. A fat snowflake falling past my window. It is falling time. Leaves are falling down, a blanket for the ground, a promise of food for roots next year and the one after. Another sip of coffee with a gust of wind. This gust was frantic, like a terrier shaking a stuffed toy. Tousled that trees' hair but good. It is falling time. Summer is going underground, waiting it out, the cold season to come. Somehow, I too, must go underground. I don't know how.