The leaves are falling,
gathering deep on the trails of Powder Horn Mountain.
Our footsteps compress but cannot revive them.
Their green gave out and moved on months ago,
revealing reds and yellows obscured all year.
The preparation. The descent—
graceful, slow, rocking back and forth,
but always down, down, down.
The family gathers around the father,
time of death four minutes ago—
our compressions cannot revive him.
The preparation, the colors
revealed in these final weeks of fighting.