A pair of red leaves spinning on one another

 

in such wildly erratic patterns over a frozen field

 

it's hard to tell one from another and whether

 

if they were creatures they'd be in combat or courting

 

or just exalting in the tremendousness of their being.

 

Humans can be like that, capricious, aswirl,

 

not often enough in exalting, but courting, yes,

 

and combat; so often in combat, in rancour, in rage,

 

we rarely even remember what error or lie

 

set off this phase of our seeming to have to slaughter.

 

Not leaves then, which after all in their season

 

give themselves to the hammer of winter,

 

become sludge, become muck, become mulch,

 

while we, still seething, broiling, stay as we are,

 

vexation and violence, ax, atom, despair.