First there are the leaves, brown in winter. The people are the leaves. They are walking brown across sidewalks and yellow grass between classes and November bells. The people are the leaves. And the leaves are brown. They walk together, earnest in conversation, or walk shouldered together across the sidewalks: in November.
Yes, first there are the leaves. And the leaves are brown.
Then there are the red rocks, the red and chalk colors of ground-things the leaves fall on. The sidewalks, divided, and the building-walls and wine windows of afternoons. Afternoons and the ground-sky of winter.
Put that next, the red rocks of afternoons. And chalk sidewalks the brown leaves are on.
Last there is the air not moving. Brown leaves and sidewalk people, closer. Leaves far on yellow before the walls of age: decayed knowledge of a winter. And people, clear, parted only by November trees, closer. Clear November trees. And grey. Depth only in the shadows, the sunlight shallow, closer: and birds in grey leaves fulfilling air.
Last is the air, depthless, that does not move. And the people who are the leaves. And the wine windows of afternoons. And the leaves that are brown upon yellow before the walls of age.