Leaves of absence

The lack of snow, I suppose, is a blessing. On the cement of the sidewalk of my street, leaves that are long gone have left a mark. The mark is light-brown, like the tint of an old photograph, and only recognizable by its contour — gingko, maple, oak. It’s like a chemical exposure, the whole sidewalk acting as a film, and the acid rain doing the development, and in the end, the whole exhibit stays right where the pieces have been created, since it would be incredibly inefficient and costly to chisel them away and exhibit them in a Chelsea gallery, though these kinds of things have been done for less spectacular objects. The difference, I suppose, is that in this case there is no identifiable auteur, since I need to exempt myself, even though I might have a Duchampesque claim, in a way?

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