A learf blows through the wind. It's a really strong wind, okay? Like yeah, they weigh seven kilograms at the very lightest, but you can't just underestimate the power of a good ol' fall bluster. If these things can bring down power lines and start fires, then they can carry a leaf-puppy-thingamajig just fine.
There are other leaves on the wind, of course, but they're mostly burnt orange, brown, red - actual leaves, leaf-shaped and leaf-sized, flipping around in the air playfully with all the mood and muster of a fine autumn day. There's a bit of floating litter, too, and the slightest hint of distant chatter from two picnic-goers who seem like the most likely culprits behind the windswept garbage.
But this isn't a story about the leaves, of course. If you wanted leaves, you could pick any ordinary autumn day, any ordinary place, any ordinary wind. If you wanted leaves, you shouldn't even be here. Can't you read the title?
No, this is a story about a lea(r)f, on the wind.