Falling

A stew sky, thick, substantial, coating the branches, wiggling the leaves like they are loose teeth.  

The leaves face plant flat, spread eagle, kissing the ground as if all this time they'd longed for gravity to succeed. 

Drippy, gooey, soup day, nudging genes of old to whisper, "hibernation is near."  

Modern genes mumbling back something about productivity and efficiency battling the wooly

buzzing lullaby in your head.  

Rain drizzles off gutters, and surely there are

sirens swimming there singing us to slack off, enter into the lazy drip dropping heart beat of our very own muddy soil.