December Notes, France

The wind fluttering papery leaves.

Eyes screwed up against the bare, white light of December. Sharp shadows. Furrowing cool heavy soil with bare feet, loosens the smell of what- potato, hazelnuts? Tasting corn on my tongue.

Working leaves between my hands, - wafer-thin, translucent skeletons, bumped with hardened arteries. They rub and crisp and scratch like pencil on paper.

I tip my head back, eyes rolling up the trunk of the tree. Taut shoulder muscles. My tightly drawn neck. Above me, the canopy. Woven branches in suspension in the cobalt blue sky.

Legs braced against the ground, seizing handfuls of leaves. Heart pumping to lift my arms from my trunk. Heat rises into my face. And my chest expands and opens to the sky, hands unclasping leaves.

I am wide eyed. Ears sparking. Caught on every side by the spectacle of their diffusion.

An inbreath heaves me.

Then delighted, tossing and strewing leaves in exploding action

Watching the pause at their height, and the turn,

Silently swinging arcs left to right, right to left

Left to right again.

Eyes soften. And in my blurred peripheral view, they fall like snow.

Close to the earth tightening into a spin. And diving. Flickering pale underbellies.

My caught inbreath.

Captivated by the small rustle as they touch ground.

The outbreath.