The Leaf the Basket Cannot Keep

I know the rider by pressure:
a foot on the pedal,
the small correction at the handle.

The white sheet reaches
nearly to the road.
A black hat keeps its angle.

In the wicker, the trees
have gathered their falling colour.
Some leaves ride above the wheel.
Some keep low,
skittering along the road.

The basket gives a few
another measure of distance.
At the bend, one lifts free.

I feel its weight leave.
The front wheel holds its line.
The leaf turns once
in the dust of the road.