The light brown January oak
leaves do a shadow dance
on the trunk of their tree.
A truck goes by with the word "clean"
written in large sans-serif letters,
hoping to change someone's ways
with its mantra.
I return to the shadow dance
noticing how one moment
it is vigorous,
and a second later, it is still,
almost.
Another truck goes by with a landscape
painted on its side. A large tree
in the landscape is devoid
of any shadow dancing.
One of the shadows on my tree
quivers, sensing the competition,
and then regains his impetus
to do a fast moving encore.
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