The leaves, flittering like birds, birds that have been attached, captured, leashes of fishing line around their neck, allowed to float in the breeze, tasting the freedom. The taste rolls off their tongues, down the back of their throats. It tastes like more. But there is not more to have. Tethered in groups to their branches, swaying, holding the branches up like balloons. They bring such pleasure to those watching them, watching at the zoo of nature. Occasionally, these visitors will throw a crumb, a disturbance in the air, sending a breeze to them, scattering the birds, only to regroup momentarily as they are ****** back by their leashes.

(Yet only the flitteringest of leaves are birds. The needles, poised like popcorn of green starch, stick out from their branches, frozen after their explosion into the air, paralyzed at their first breath.)