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All in a rush like a late October flight of geese when the leader wheels to the front and the flock follows, the gingko lets fly its leaves from their stubby shoots— and in moments the ground is a pool of yellow-gold. It’s the same each Halloween, as if the gold is only a blind; and unmasked, the tree waits, bare and mute, until spring—when the buds unfurl into cool green fans. When my time comes, I want to reach out my yellow arms, let my leaves go—not one by one, but all-in-a- flash! I want to fill the dead flower beds and the bird feeders, the gutters, the fish pond, the chinks in the old stone wall— till I’m nothing but wind and weeds and a drift of leaves—enough, maybe, for a child to lie down in and sweep out wings.