HOW THEY FALL Some fall straight as a plumb line, others float like feathers, meander in unseen mazes down to the ground. A few fall alone, a white-silkened chute swaying in the sky, others flow like tourists in museums. They spin like elfin pinwheels clockwise or counter depending on prevailing currents of wind. Two are waltzing like angels, their wings almost touching, borne aloft on Danubes of air. And one lands softly in my palm, pink, a snow princess— this five-petalled plum blossom

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