I’m in the back yard, drinking my absinthe and just generally enjoying the lovely evening, in front of my fire, when I notice that there seem to be a lot of leaves falling. I look up and see that the fire, which is in its first throes of consumption, has produced such a violent updraft that it is shaking all the newly dead leaves of early fall loose into the air, and so they fall in a gentle shower around the fire.
There’s a poem in there, if I were a poet.
I think you’ve made a nice start. Makes me want to re-visit our haiku project.
Speaking of poets sitting around the fire: I’m thinking we fancy ourselves a gathering of Bards, the great legislators of meaning for the tribes, and offer different figures using your initial observations as so many starting points. Variations. Forms. Etc. Always wanted to do that.