One by one, the leaves decide.
Who will go first? Who will hang on?
Who will be the last to go?
Already some cannot resist
the chance to fly, to ride the wind
free of any restraint, to sail birdlike
on wings of air. Most wait,
savoring the familiar view, savoring
its changes. There is no right or wrong.
Time signals each one when to fly.
And time, the bubbling creek says,
has a way of doing things
in exactly the perfect order.