...an unusual thing in the frosty early breeze.
Small groups of crisp brown sycamore leaves were swirling on the ground. One or two leaves would swerve away from their spiraling group to join the communal gestures of another group. Two or three groups, in turning and leaning activity, always sending off drunken emissaries or secret agents to blend into other moving enclaves.
The sense of animation, sentience, dance was marked and eerie. As if some living tribal spirit had infected these dead skittering forms.