Dead leaves,
dead leaves,
dead leaves underfoot.

Crunch, crunch,
between my boot leather
and the sidewalk.
Crunch.

A unique, totally
satisfying sound,
the gentle crunch of leaves,
crunch.

I am a child again,
stomping on leaves,
just to hear the sounds
they make as their dried crispy
skeletons are mulched,
smushed,
munched,
mashed,
powdered,
quashed,
and smashed into oblivion.

Now I can remember
when I was a child,
when the poplars
were so much taller than I.
And the leaves they shed
fluttered to the lawn,
laying there lazily,
soaking up the autumn sun.

Rakes were procured,
our nefarious purpose,
to disturb their autumns rest.

Great piles were made,
many feet high, or so it seemed,
for I was not much taller,
than a bumblebee.

Cool air blowing in our hair,
a momentary weightlessness,
and a mighty crunch!
Laughter and joy, and the leaves'
dying sound.

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