Weathered Well

Horizontal winds blow, invisible as they scissor through trees and yellowing grasses. Leaves trail in their wake, dancing and spinning, each taking their turn, their timing seemingly plotted and rehearsed.

A child rolls in the fallen leaves, reveling in their autumn crispness. His eyes are vibrant and wide, eager for his boots to crunch the leaves’ stiff spines.

I cinch my jacket about my neck, blocking the cold from my skin, as it pierces my face with its stinging bite. My hair swirls wildly with no cap to contain its waywardness.

These are the beginning days of autumn. The days when winds sweep over our eyes, closing them to the cloudy skies. Soon the air will freeze, as winter stealthy sneaks in behind the brisk cloak of fall.