Leaves are a-flying

Like surfs in the air.

Bright colors are shining,

Unique everywhere.

My dogs jump and tumble

And pant with delight;

They twist, turn, and stumble,

With only one line of sight.

That pile of leaves,

Sitting still in the yard,

Does not realize the force,

At which those dogs will strike hard.

Its beautiful colors,

So neatly arrayed,

Will soon just be whispering

Of remnants of play.

So those dogs, they go hard,

When we open the door.

Those leaves stand no chance,

We did ponder for sure.

Then those dogs hit the leaves

And disappear from our sight,

And we laugh at those poor

Poor autumn leaves’ plight.

While those dogs take to ravaging,

Stomping, play-fighting,

We cannot help bending,

Rolling, and crying.

Those dogs make us laugh

To our heart’s sweet content;

And we will not forget

All that time that we spent;

Preparing and caring

And swiping and sweeping

And kicking and mixing

And loving minds thinking.

So we could make that bright pile of leaves

For those two dogs to destroy and to thieve

Because we love the great laugh

That those dogs give us every time and a half.