diary / by Edward Mullany


Some of the leaves I saw falling this morning, from the branches of trees on the street where I live, while I was walking toward the end of the block, where there’s a café at which I sometimes get coffee, I probably saw again, not much later, when I returned along the sidewalk in the direction from which I’d come, and happened to glance at the ground where they now lay, among other leaves, in scatterings and in piles, or strewn in irregular patterns, though of course I wouldn’t have been able to identify the ones I’d seen falling, had someone asked me to do so, for they all looked the same to me, in color and in shape, though they did vary in ways that would’ve been noticeable had I stopped to collect them and hold each of them up near my face, to regard them in the daylight, though the time and effort I would’ve expended on such an activity, without any purpose except the one I’ve described, might’ve caused me to appear frivolous or insane.