Heavy grasshopper lands on my skirt, yellow and strong.  It is September. Soon we will hear the rustle of silk ball gowns with every sudden start and stop of the Wind in the old oak tree. A million voices rise and fall. One, just one leaf screeches across the sidewalk, reluctant to begin his descent into deterioration. A crowd overtakes him, sweeping him into a waltz. The world is filled with the wonder of coldness creeping into the evening air, clutching us with iced fingers, filling our hair with fallen stars-

I laugh.

I sing with them: the stars, the wind, the grasshoppers. They must not leave me behind! I too, want a Backward Glance before we move on. I must celebrate before saying goodbye.

Sylvia