turning

I’m in an office, cement floors and recycled air and the ever-present hum of something toiling away behind the pockmarked ceiling panels.

My bones are restless.

To my right there is a window that doesn’t open. Beyond it, the top of a small tree. Small compared to the giant evergreens rooted in the forest not far from here. Tall compared to me. Its leaves are still mostly green, shimmery in the fall sunlight, but a few are already starting to turn. They’re eager for the next season. I know how they feel.