Dead Leaves
I never really think about how many leaves are on the branches of our big oaks. They just hang there, swaying in the breeze, providing shade and shelter to me and the birds and the cats. Then comes the spring molt. The leaves fall in their thousands. They blanket the ground. Pile in drifts along the drive. Gather in the gutters. Congregate on the porch. Huddle in the dog-run. Last season’s mulch is now covered with leaf mulch.
Yesterday, I sat on the north porch and watched them. They’re not silent, neither are they still. A little breeze blows, and few will clatter along. Then silence, then a harder breeze and more leaves move and shuffle down the drive. Leaves still on the tree hear the commotion, let loose of their branch, and tumble to the ground below, almost as if a soft rain is falling. Everything is in motion down then across and around.
What follows will be the blooms and new leaves. The blooms will provide a bit of color, long and yellow to compliment the new leaves of soft green and bright promise. The tassels, when they are done with their pollinating chores, will then dry and detach, and they too, will fall to the ground in much the same fashion as their kin, the leaves, adding to the mulch beneath the trees. It’s a virtuous cycle of life and death one feeding the other. It’s all to the benefit of the big trees swaying there in the breeze, in the communion of the dead leaves and oak blooms.