The cold wind funneled in from the coast range, and fanned the dried oak leaves. They swirled and danced, looking like brown and tan flames.
The leaves, falling full victim to the gusts, curled and dashed around trees and stumps, each piling over another, with the careless abandon of the doomed. No crevice or corner was safe, as the icy January wind scoured the landscape.
For an hour, I stood at the window and watched the ballet. It was hopeless to predict where the gusts would carry their cargo.
Soon, wonder and questioning turned to appreciation, as the wind died.