“October evening, 1969. Golden leaves spiral down. Johnny tries to catch one. His fingers touch the whisper of leaf but close on air. It doesn’t matter. He spins across the yard, dodging gold bullets. He’s hit! He’s hit! He falls to the ground, rolling in leaf, grass, sticks and dirt. In the distance, a dog barks. The boy lies still, arms spread, legs at odd angles. Dead. He is dead when the car pulls up in front of his house. Heart beating wild from all his spinning, he is dead, trying to still his breath when the doors slam shut and shoes click up the sidewalk, dead when a man’s voice says, “Mrs. Harlyle?” dead when his mother screams, a siren-sound that falls to the ground like leaves. The boy is dead when he opens his eyes, looks at the sky, darkly now. Dead as he lays there, waiting for God, angel, or ghost. Dead as one leaf spiral-lands on his cheek.”
From: The Beautiful Feast by M. Rickert