A vain venue for solipsistic sophists, verbal voyeurs, lubricious logorrheics, and serial-comma lovers.
Saturday, November 09, 2013
leaf it alone
As I watched Onondaga Creek swirl before me, after heavy rains, the waters muddy and leaf-laden, over by Plum Street, standing near those gorgeous, black industrial pedestrian bridges, I fixated on one greenish-yellow maple leaf, caught in the stream, carried along, floating, twirling. And I thought: why that leaf? What about the other leaves and twigs? And for how long do they pass before me?