This writing was based on observation of the leaves on the kitchen roof at University United Methodist Church, 1127 University Avenue, Madison, Wisconsin. The second version was the one which was given to my parents and which hung in their bedroom until 2005.
A cold November day. The leaves would swirl round the rooftop in their frenzied race to chase the wind. They scatter past the pipe and drain and gather back against the wall, and rest. But then the race is on again and they in maddened frenzy run around the kitchen vent and up its straight steel sides, and down. And then again they rise and climb and some will reach the top and fly - and fly away. No more they climb and run to catch the wind, but finding it they float, not catching it but being caught. The wind blows where it will.
Anyone listening would say,
"It's only dead leaves
blowing on the roof."
A cold November day;
the leaves are swirled round
the lampposts down below,
the morning sky is gray
and promises to leave
the autumn's second fall of snow.
Upon the roof the leaves begin
a merry game of chase –
"Catch me," they cry, and run
and shout and chase across the tin.
The race is on, the leaders out
to pace the noisy crew.
They scatter past the kitchen vent
then up again they sail
they stop to rest as children do
and back again the way they went.
Climb up the straight, steel-sided vent
that looms above your head!
Get halfway up, look all around
and then slide down with all the rest.
But then again they rise and climb
and some will reach the top and fly!
And fly away. No more they run
to catch the wind
but being caught they float on it
and gently go away.
Their fellows stop and look a bit
as on their way they go
and get on again with having fun
until the coming snow.
If anyone were listening they would say it is only dead leaves being blown around on the roof. It's a cold November day, and the brisk wind is stirring the fallen leaves down the sidewalks and around the lampposts. The morning sky is gray and featureless, promising more snow to top the season's first. But it will not snow yet, and on the roof there's time for another game.
There must be 50 of them on the roof today. From my vantage in the hall window it looks more like a hundred. Just a moment ago they were running around the roof, chasing each other over the black, frozen tar. Now they're quiet for a moment, exhausted by their own exuberance. Though I hear nothing of their voices through the glass, I think they're laughing to each other about their last wild chase.
Now one of them begins to move, just a little at first. That one is Tom, who's always been a leader, from what I've seen. Now Jan and Mike begin to follow, and Ruth and Kent -- 'Come on,' they must be calling, 'catch us if you can!' Out towards the wall at the edge of the roof, back toward the crowd, they start with little spurts of movement, daring everyone to follow them.
Look! The whole roof has erupted into motion! Over to the wall, back in on themselves. Now they're running in a tight circle in the corner of the roof. Off behind the kitchen vent, back again, around the vent, around, around! All of them chasing each other, everyone running, running in the last fall days before the winter shuts them in.
Up the side of the vent. George is climbing up the side. He's half way! But he slides back down. There's Sandy, too, trying to climb the sheet-metal wall in the middle of the roof. But now they're off again, around the roof drain, back to the wall, into the corner and around and around.
They're slowing down again, tumbling over each other in a happy, rolling collision of scores of bodies. Smiling and panting, they try to catch their breath before someone starts them off again on the frenzied chase. A few of them still move on the edges, the slowpokes catching up with the crowd, some others walking off their pounding energies, the rest just pulling out from the pile to get some air of their own.
They're off again! I didn't see them start this time. It's almost like a school of fish -- they seem to know just when to start and when to turn, and they all begin at the same time. But now the chase is on, around the circle, back to the wall, around again. Now they circle the drain pipe again and again, so fast it makes me dizzy. Now they're back to the kitchen vent, around and around. They they go again, right up the side of the vent. I almost believe someone is going to make it to the top, they're putting so much energy into it -- there's John, two-thirds of the way before he falls back. And Jeff is going too, and Jan and Bill on the other side.
Look at them climb! Right to the top! No, wait -- they aren't climbing anymore. They're flying! Flying to the top of the vent, over the top. Look! There's Jeff, lifting himself on the air, gliding away. And Jan! And now four, no five, six of them, over the vent, over the wall, flying away.
Below them the players slow and stop. They are exhausted. They look up from their spent frenzy to watch half a dozen of their fellows rising on a gentle breeze, floating away over the parking lot. They tumble back on each other and lie down as the fliers disappear. Six at least have made it out of the little world of the roof, have become fliers, like the birds, and their success casts its glow on all of these who remain. But the cold roof is no place to lie still and rest. The chase is on again, circling and running, chasing and shouting, building up that frenzy that lifted some of them above the vent, beyond the roof.
Anything happening out there?
No, just the leaves being blown around on the roof.