Rust and Umber

I can always write about leaves,
fallow and fawn,
rust and umber,
their sound, amplified it seems,
crushing
under my feet,
reaching my ears
with percussive sounds
like cymbals crashing and hissing.
The wind winds through
adding a texture to the sounds
just as I pass a playground
in full orchestra,
children's voices carried
and twirled about,
twined together
as one instrument
punctuated
by the occasional staccato shriek.
I tap out a beat on my thigh
as I let my ear buds dangle,
and my feet shuffle
through the next pile of leaves.
I can always write about leaves.