327 Market

I am looking at a leaf that I found on the asphalt outside. The screaming
reds vie with the strident greens for visual dominance. From the center,
growing like a cancer, the calling card of the season, is a dead black. It
reminded me of a fractal image of some unsolvable equation, like why equals
exs to the fourth. The reds aren't even all one red, fire-engine mingles
with carmine and a bruised sort of red-violet. The fields of black are
surrounded by the thinest strand of green, one last sweet memory of spring.
On one sde of the leaf the red has burned itself up and left a hint of
yellow. The leaf holds the the time in her curling hand.