Metamorphosis.

It is mid-autumn

and a flock of sparrows,

darting about in the sunshine,

innocently alight in a birch-tree,

amidst its remaining foliage.

All now oval and of a size

and strung upon branches,

the poor birds, it seems,

are at once bewitched,

held there, flightless,

become leaves.

Sometimes, late in autumn,

observing the fall of leaves,

it can seem that the odd one

almost comes to life

before it meets the ground,

like something waking up,

only to fly off, on the wind,

surely borne by the wind,

like one delighted at being free,

freed from some forgotten dream,

some vague spellbound state.