I once sat beneath an oak, in that
golden time before the sunset,
before the light fades to the ruddy
orange that marks the beginning
of the dying of the sun.

I saw a leaf, large, green light shining
softly through, to tinge the ground an
emerald hue. A wind rose in the flaming
west, rising high on thermal tides, and
came sighing down, down into the valley,
at last to the tree, to the leaves, and to me.

The wind struck the rooted oak, set the
limbs all to swaying, set the swaying
grasses sighing. I watched the leaf in its
great-hearted struggle, flailing against the
pull of the swift flowing breeze.

Distraught I watched as its stem was
pulled taught, and often my breath
caught in my throat, as my eyes sure
convinced me of its imminent leave.
Yet all in vain.

For at last the wind grew weary of
its voice, and ceased its sighing
through those low rolling hills. And
all was quiet, there in the valley, and I
smiled, and was calm, and the world
was content.