Leaf lids fluttering flirtatiously leaf lips rustling, uttering, puckering under windy kisses. Gazing up through their stainglass limbs a ****** of nature, but only in admiration, not in the strict meaning or sense. No, not like that. Some surrendered to the early flash of autumn colour. Threw in their lot. Disconnected. Gentle deaths, landing softly be nothing left of them come spring. Hope they died "the little death" making love to the wind in their own unique way. Before humanity distroys them. Little things, these leaves, leaving the world and a fool to wonder.