The leaves on the tree
outside my bedroom window
have been yellow for weeks.

I watched them turn
and stagnate
now brittle and quick to crumble.

When they finally stop clinging,
it isn't a float,
or a slow dance to the ground.

They fling themselves
from the edge of the branch,
and plummet
expecting frosted grass.

Instead, they're lodged
in a pile of dog ****
I didn't feel
like picking up this morning.