Staring Out the Window at Trees

At another time
the green leaves blowing rhythmically against the grey sky
might be melancholy.

They are the memories of a silence,
an autumn lake after a draught
when the water recedes to reveal familiar things blurred over with rust and grime
and made quiet with disuse.

A white crane beats soundless wings across the sky,
his neck folded back on itself
like the drain pipe beneath a sink.

But today, the leaves are just there like I am just here.
Waiting to be somewhere else.