Horizontal winds blow, invisible,
scissoring through trees and yellowing grasses.
Leaves trail in their wake,
dancing, spinning, each taking their turn,
their timing seemingly plotted and rehearsed.
A boy rolls in fallen leaves, reveling in their autumn crispness.
His eyes, vibrant, vast, and eager for his boots,
crunch, crunch the leaves’ stiff spines.
I cinch my jacket about my neck,
block the cold from piercing my skin with its stinging bite.
My hair swirls wildly with no cap to contain its waywardness.
The beginning days of autumn.
Days windswept and chilled over our eyes,
closing them to the cloudy skies.
Soon the air will freeze as stealthy winter
sneaks in behind the brisk cloak of fall.
Weathered Well 