Wind-kicked leaves

Wind-kicked leaves, red and golden, drift slowly down to autumn bed. The sinking sun touches horizon trees, is laced with branches and leaves us, leaves us a fire-shot sky of evening.

The houses call us – no, not the houses, home, the shelter. Hand in hand, our backs to the dying in the distance, we fade away to deeper darkness.

After the thunderburst

Only eagles and adult kites could ride out these winds; and the kites with difficulty. The sparrows, prey, remain motionless beneath palm fronds, an occasional shiver and shuffle of feathers betraying their location. Slower than it had arrived with a thunderburst, the rain slows and stops, the wind calms and in the sudden silence birdsong begins to rise again. Now, before the heat sweeps back in, or the southern storm once more, now is the time to find peace, or make peace, or rest, simply rest.