moving leaves

a gaggle
of central
american
astronauts with
their loud
churning
jet packs
strapped
to their backs
are blowing
single leaves
across
the barren
stretch of
parking lot.
they use hand
singles
in the deep space
of this
foreign
planet of falling
leaves,
of small patches
of grass
that need
cutting, to
communicate
when each leaf
is in a good
place to be.
they like the sound
of their
machines.
it soothes
the air, makes
it hard
to be misunderstood,
or to listen
to what isn't.