how does the wind
lift the sycamore leaf, how
                        does the whirling
            win the fall
asked a branch, and a blown leaf
                        replied
            well the wind works
its way over surfaces and lifts
                        us up
            into current, floating
leafskin and midrib on recurrent
                        sea blasts—
            the branch shook
losing leaves the wind
                        gusted
            into walls and swirled
sunward with cylindrical force
                        and said
            so that is how wind
wins the branch, and the blown leaf
                        rounding
            the bough in its orbit
tumbled over in agreement
                        spinning
            back into the funnel
as the branch called out after
                        ah but
            wind will never win
the whipped sycamore will it—
                        the words
            were sucked into spirals
spinning out a crown of brown leaves
                        where one
            was no longer listening

__

There's no book I've re-read more than the Selected Poems of A.R. Ammons, and no book that holds more mystery for me. What's being overheard in this poem is me asking Archie how it's done.