Then Gone

This morning I walked the dog.

The neighborhood was quiet.

The air was cold,

Or at least as cold as it can get in a sprinkler-fueled necropolis like this one.

The dog wandered from leaf to leaf, from pine cone to pine cone, anomaly to anomaly.

And then a leaf fell.

But it didn’t spiral down onto the ground.

For some reason,

the fates had crafted the leaf so perfectly,

that it flew.

In a straight line it flew all the way to the opposite side of the street like a paper airplane,

then settled to the ground.


And that moment’s gone.

It’ll never come again.

But I guess that’s perfection.



Comes upon you when walking your dog down an empty street.

Never when you want it.

Never when you need it.

Just a leaf, in the sky, flying over your head.

Then gone.

–Joe Fisher


Joe is a writer living in Los Angeles. His plays have appeared in Los Angeles, Portland, New York, Dallas and Chicago. He has also worked on several feature film projects that he will not name because he is too embarrassed to admit he worked on them. He also has a son named Dash and a fish named Billy Bob.