A flurry of thin yellow and orange leaves blow past the porch railings, a slow-motion dance. The few remaining leaves in the highest branches of the trees are whipping back and forth in the wind, desperate for their turn to fly.
Nestled in amongst these last few survivors is a strange object. The tree does not know what it is; it is not something shaped for high places, not something familiar to the wind and the sky. It is too large to be a nest, too still and cold to be an animal, too soft to be a rock. How did it get there? Why was it given up to the thin fingers of the trees? They will hold it until its owner reclaims it, or until time and decay send it on its way.
It is undisturbed by the wind and the shaking branches. Its thin cotton cords are wrapped tightly in place, securing it against a fall. Not that a fall would hurt it. It is made of rubber and leather, and is empty in the middle. If it were to fall, the leaves muse, it would bounce - not like us. Perhaps it would like to fall. Perhaps it wishes to join us on our merry journey to the ground. Perhaps it would sleep with us, and keep us company. They wave themseles frantically at it, trying to ask its opinion, but it does not respond. They sigh to themselves.
Shoes and leaves do not speak the same language.
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