Leaves talk
in the sounds they make
as they rasp along the ground,
breeze-scurried,
crackly.

Suddenly you whirl
as if your ex
might have just whispered
plaintively to you:

A bold leaf gusts onto your pants, mid-calf;
you kick it off.

You really are alone now.  

It breaks up into blur
of yellow across October,
not making a sound.

Talk then is of silence, chilly western wind.