Wind, or any fluid, is seasonally apt to mostly come from the same direction, what was upwind blows down into disheveled recirculated patterns, whirlpools, eddies; vaguely recognizable piles and levees.  Recognizable, that is, to repeat observers of small areas where gravity has interceded, downwind from an obstruction, settled in morning frost.

Refugee leaves lie in slightly altered re-compositions, remixed in the eddies that settle on the lee-side of trees and buildings; among them bits of commercial wrappers, colorful leavings of human habits.

Maybe frustration and annoyance at the abundance of political “discourse” in the tent has the anarchists outside in a disruptive mood. The winds have delivered from distant unraked acres forests, woodlands, unplowed stalks broken by ice and snow the gifts of the wind … leaves. Maybe to be kicked (with foolish but optimistic grace?) into new configurations. Incorporated piles of shredded leaves, brown, dusty bits of oaks and corn, (once verdant green, luxurious golds, and red-browns) now lifeless pales; momentary objects of a reflexive emotive’s frustrated attentions.

In the scattering, the re-coalescing and repeated gatherings the dried leaves will always abide by the winds and return to what they always have done, and probably always will do. Even into that – the artistics kick.