It’s one of those kinds of days again. Just like yesterday. And the day before, and the day before that. The sky is tense, as if unsure whether to give up its swollen belly of rain. Stray water droplets escape from the clouds and coalesce in a smoky, silver fog glittering between tree branches.
On the other side of the cold glass window, delicate leaflets billow in brilliant yellow; they are restless canaries weaving and darting through the wind. The fading colour of the flaxen leaves is still so painfully vibrant, a careless splatter of colour on the dull green from the dying summer. They remind me of nostalgic tears, a lament in the wind, of being trapped in the perpetual cycle of dying and living.
There, propped under the crumbling golden canopy is something lonely and forgotten—a rusty bike. Like wistful memories, it leans quietly, unobtrusively in the shadows, in calm waiting. Perhaps someday a hand will wrap around the worn handles and slowly breathe lively life back into its rusted joints.
Inside, under my fingers the tired tables are rough with scratches. It is a battlefield pitted with old conversations, the pale illegible scribbles scars from idle amusement. The still air is strange with the complex musings of humans mixed with the simple swirling aroma of cooking and baking.
The shadows stretch and shiver in an eerie dance. I blink in surprise and look back outside. The leaves are gone now, off to fly across the world. Strange, contorting shadows are playing across the escarpment, dancing puppets of the restless clouds far above the scattered gold. Playing a game of hide-and-seek, the sun darts across the feathered shreds of blue like a wily child, teasing the world with a few seconds of radiant sunlight. Another flock of canary leaves flutter through the sky in aureate flecks. The leaves seem to glow, as if they are the shooting stars that fell in love with the trees. These, instead of soaring through the limitless sky, drift in listless monotone toward the ground, forever to be embraced by earth.
A sudden gust of wind shakes the few remain leaves on the branches into a flutter of frenzy, trembling in another desperate run away from home. If I press my ear to the bitterly cold window, I can hear to wondering whisper of leaves on the wind. The pensive echo in the empty sky, that is as deep and raw as the warm spring rain, the patient sound of a flower being cut. It is an augury of the cruel storm that is just on the horizon.
(Written at school for an English descriptive essay assignment)