Your Friday prompt for Stream of Consciousness Saturday is “leaves.” Use it as a noun or a verb. Have fun!
At 5 a.m. the central square of the old New England town is still, not even the coffee shop is open yet. The park, the hub of the square, is empty save for the squirrels running up and down the ancient maples and oaks. The trees stand silent but observant, on this first day of summer, mindful but tolerant of the boisterous scrabbling of the squirrels. Nothing else, not even the air, is stirring. There is expectation in the silence.
A faint current of air moves quietly through, ruffling the youthful leaves. The trees murmur. They compare notes. A squirrel stops to listen, then continues on its way. The short breeze doesn’t allow for a lot of commotion, just the whispers and momentary leafy swells, reporting, fluttering and then stopping as it once more becomes stillness. All is satisfactory.
A young gray squirrel sits on a picnic table, nibbling at a found treat. A woman in a denim dress and sensible shoes opens the front door of the coffee shop, walks in, and locks the door behind her. The trees mark the time, their leaves anxious for the next breeze.