A folded fallen leaf I saw today,
sienna on the sidewalk’s white concrete,
appeared at first a dead bird in my way
and I prepared to step out on the street,
until I recognized it for the leaf
it is: a time-bleached piece of sycamore
whose fall betokens otherwise than grief
or detour as it opens autumn’s door.

If I suspect an omen from a bird
that isn’t there (my eyes more skilled or blind
than old Tiresias) it’s not absurd
to read this vision for intent of mind:
Whatever tender I once held for him
detached last night to settle, dead and dim.