I am an autumn leaf floating in a gentle stream of runoff.
Broken and dry, the water cannot revive my green freshness.
Brown and brittle, I follow the path of the water flowing ever onward.
I toss and drift along, without plan or thought.
My only road is the waterway, having no purpose, just movement.
My road is not destined or planned. I drift.
The stream swells in volume and depth.
I quiver in the increased turbulence, bouncing from rock to rock,
Twirling faster as the current grows stronger.
More water joins the rill, creating rapids and pools of despair.
A vortex grabs my essence and hurls me into the tornadic whirl,
Forcing me deeper into the depths of the rage.
I am spit out onto an eddy, neither traveling with drive nor destination.
I am flotsam in a spillway, trapped by forces beyond my control.
I am wreckage in the river of Covid-19.