It is a fragment floating in the wind, compelled by the magnanimous winds to move in it's spontaneous fashion. Tossed side to side, up and down, forwards and backwards, it's moving so fast it is blurry. Then, as the playful winds stop for a second, it falls.
Falling. On the ground, it lies. I see it and see a piece of trash, huddled up in the corner with the bazillions of crunchy wrinkle textured brown leaves--withering away in decay. Dead. No longer anything to anyone, not even me. Nothing.
I suppose that's the way it's supposed to be.
But the wind--by god, the winds and their shifting moods--gushes back. Shaking the darling buds of May, it roars once more--picking the trash and flinging it in a motion once more. Filing in it's vapid cavity, edifying it with it's passions, pulling it back once more to defy gravity. Pure beauty drawing in, ******* out, taking, giving. Dancing.
Tossed. Up. Down. Left. Right. Around.

Anywhere.
I suppose that's the way it's supposed to be.
I leave it twisting in the wind.