The Leaf, the Madwoman and the Still Fountain

It is dark. It is still. The time after the city fountains have been put to rest, in fear of frost, which has not yet come---but will. Early hours and I see a woman circling a trash can, filled with what was left of the rush of business lives from the day before. A moment of pondering---what is this woman doing dressed as if ready to work---circling and circling a trash can---mumbling and mumbling like a Shakespearaen witch.

But the greyness lifts ever so slightly. I see it is a suit that is smeared and tattered as is her hair. And her bag is full of nothing---old news and empty bottles.

A rush of wind comes, scattering her hair and spiraling long ago fallen leaves into the air---they circle, too. And crackle like a brood of witches taken to the sky. A morning of incantation, of madness, of loss---of sorrow.

Until suddenly the curse seems lifted for a moment---one leaf breaks free caught on some other unseen breeze---rises away from the others, from the madwoman, from me.

Perhaps finding blessing in the never ending air.

Perhaps never to be seen again.

I go on to work.

It is dark. It is still.