When the light is getting low at the end of the day, and there isn’t really a breeze to speak of, but then you notice that there is one, because of the leaves. And the leaves are just twisting quietly on their stems, independent of each other– not like when the wind is strong and you have a great bending of branch and leaves together, that rushing, unified movement as of plants all underwater. I like that, too.
But this quiet movement I saw today, when the nearly setting sun pressed orange light all along the tree trunks, and outside people were mowing their lawns and walking their dogs and riding their bikes, and we had just come home from Such a Full Day. I looked out of my bedroom window and I saw the leaves turning quietly or not at all, while behind them the sky was pallid and blank, because all the color in the world had run toward the sun.
Except for the orange on the tree trunks, of course, and the deep green of the solitary leaves. They hung there quietly and twisted, or not, and sang praise for the close of the day.
