The scrape of a leaf against the sidewalk
Rough, cruel, even inhumane
Yet somehow thrilling in the breeze
It is the knowledge of what something represents
That is stronger than the impression of its actual form
A person who cannot speak or gesture
Their mind firing on all cylinders
Often viewed as that fleeting, long-dead leaf
Yet filled with the color and beauty of autumn
Warmth In more than temperature Yearning For more than safety Minimally viable happiness Leaves half the throat parched We don’t ask for rivers Just a few drops more
Strange rituals
The beaked mask
Is donned no longer
In its stead
Plexiglass and cloth
The same wall
Between sick and well
Will the hazmat suit
Instill the same terror
Centuries later
As the plague doctors of old?
OVERVIEW AFFECTED 