I pity our neighbor at the end of the street.
His yard is cupped hands to our donations
of leaves. Generous winds blow throughout 
our desert autumn, from Labor Day to
Christmas, till trees almost bud again.
There is no color flash of fall, leaves
turn paper bag brown or pale yellow,
with a fence-sitter’s mind as to when 
and if they will surrender.  The wind
harvests a few and they reproduce like 
coveys of quail. Then the surf of leaves
chatters like a grasshopper herd 
rushing flash flood stage down the street.  
The retired neighbor’s yard is buried.  
Even during the scorching summer months
he meticulously blows his gravel clean 
once a week.  Our cool and enduring autumn 
becomes hurricane season, waves of tree debris 
cast upon his pristine beach.  We offer
our garbage cans as relief and sometimes 
he accepts.  Sadly, he has finally tired 
of the plague.  A for sale sign appeared 
this week.  He and his wife want an 
apartment with no yard.  For their sakes 
I hope the wind isn’t blowing when realtors
show the place.