A Different Kind Of Speaking

Pale green maple leaves
paraglide on down from 
woodland overseers.

I’ve been spotted.

The oaks join in, taking 
their aim with acorns,
propelled down, 
quickened by the earth
which lends its gravity as aide.

I lift my shirt
over my head, a poor
defense from the barrage, 
and run, flailing each leg
forward, jumping as a kid might
during dodgeball, hoping
for a quick exit out
of the gymnasium.

It felt like crossfire.