The trees revise their interpretation of burning. I don't have a problem with it. Maybe if you change every day plot can't find you. That's where youth goes. It's not time to pick up my daughter, but I don't have enough time to go home, so I'm parked in this marginally legal parking space watching trees shiver in the wind like someone pressed mute on ominous tremolo. Sonic nothing, merciful null; I live in one of those towns where it's easier to beg forgiveness than ask permission. Light rain begins to fall like the baby teeth of something growing larger. Some kid's grip on the monkey bars slips a little and he dangles there one-armed. (Like a leaf, yes.) There are dozens of children inside that building who know more than me about how trees sustain themselves, but how many of them will ever stare at a curated pile of leaves and try to remember the last time they made a real decision? No textbook will tell you fall is the season being in your car feels a little like being in a submarine. Here I am again in the chrysalis, changing. The school calendar says tomorrow is chicken pot pie. The bell is about to ring, and I'm about to be alive.