Theirs Alone

There, over there. There they are
black imps that they are, siblings
in puppyhood under the forgivable
delusion that the glowing autumn arras
they prance about within chasing
after wind-blown foliage, then
one another, is theirs, theirs alone.
They are small, not exceedingly
but small withal and in the forest
that seems so vast and expansive
they could easily be overlooked
if it were not that the landscape is
now a monochrome of yellow and
they are not. It is cold, as fall tends
to be, and the wind bellows through
the trees, ripping gold and bronze
red and orange leafs from their
abortive perches where they cling
as though to fall away is to signal
they are complicit with nature in
agreeing that winter may soon arrive.
The puppies prance and leap, pirouette
and race madly off in all directions
feinting and herding one another in 
an expression of utter exhilaration
loving the nippy air, the wind, the
fallen detritus, and above all, life.