The wind blows through the leafless trees. It scatters the driest of Fall leaves that don't seem to rest when they hit the ground. They are locked in their transmutation. They are sustained by their living death. They are firmly seated in their journey to new life as the memory of the tree from which they came passes on. I am these blowing leaves, crisp and without much substance left. Like an old weathering tombstone tilted in uncut grass. I am a memory, yet I no longer am who I once was. I have passed beyond. "Here lies Alec Scheibe, a dream of a dream of a dream" Merlin flies free and rests on a leafless branch of a nearby tree and gazes off enjoying the crisp air and the warmth of a Winter sun in the early afternoon.
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