Dennis A. Ambrose


The days of late fall in leaves scattering are like soldiers running. The wind becomes a trumpet calling to arms the many in another hour of war. Marching soldiers, the leaves of late autumn become once more, defending a belief that needs to be restored. The settled days of peace are few and far and memorial days seem to come more than once a year.

Maybe each day it should rain. Leaves cannot fly when wet. All the world then could rest and we would not need the sun in a march to victory. In the rain we may reach for a phone and at last find a moment in common talk. Leaves running like soldiers in a late winter’s day make little sense. Come spring none can be found, only branches that once a trumpet sounded.