By Ben Greenman
from forthcoming collection, as yet untitled
“The leaves swirl, roll, twirl, surge, leap, lurch, and eddy with an astonishing agility that approaches music. The tree has an appalling dispassion and does not even move its branches. The air grows colder, the rain comes down, and that which has fallen to the ground disintegrates and is drawn into the soil.” So goes a description of what is happening every day all over town, and while the author is unknown, it is suspected that the account was penned by a man who often leans against a fence that runs along the southern edge of Porter Park.
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