Crinkling of near-dead leaves, like the
Wrinkling of a sheet of tissue paper,
Drowns out the memories of
Years past, gently ushers in
A calming presence
A present state
A blank slate
On a December day that mimics
The beginning of the May you graduated

Pigeons fidgeting and squirrels
Picking at acorn remains
Provide such a constant refrain
That when they suddenly scatter
And take flights for reasons unknown to me
The space feels a bit empty

But before I have time to feel the
Absence of that sound it returns,
The same as before,
Though made by different little feet.