The trees are cleansing themselves:

throwing out the excess.

Who needs fingers?

Who needs hair?

Who needs skin?

All is scrubbed off,

and falls to the ground.

The crunch is not of leaves,

but of phalanges,

each soft tiny

snap

a broken bone.

Each rustle

a disturbance of dried skin.

Each whisper

the skating of shorn hair.

The trees are ready for winter.