Autumn–the leaves swirl and dance above cracked cobblestones; a scudding cloud of decay driven ever onward by the dying year’s final breath.
Autumn–a sharp and poignant tang invades the lungs, beckoning back distant, nearly forgotten memories of mulled cider and hot buttered bread.
Autumn–a creak and a croak, and the raven takes flight, his glossy feathers blue-black in the gleaming shaft of sunlight piercing the sullen clouds.
Autumn–snap, crackle, and crunch underfoot as I tread the leaf strewn walk. A long drawn breath, a pause at the lazy sweep of wings, and a single wish released.
Autumn–o to be a vagrant leaf, a scent on the breeze, or a mere feather on a raven’s wing.
I am standing in the midst of a field. The tall grass is yellowed and golden; every faint gust of wind sends the stalks rippling and swaying like an ocean. The air is empty; there is no sound save the murmuring of the golden waves. There is nothing beyond my field but a wide dome of soft blue. It is close, so very close, as though I can almost touch the sky. There is nothing here, except the field, the sky, and I.
I am standing on the brink. This is a no man’s land. I did not always stand amid these bowing stalks and I will not remain here forever, but today I am caught between. I am trapped in this field; this place that is somehow between yesterday and tomorrow. I hold my breath. I can feel my heart beat. My mind is restless; there is something waiting for me beyond the edge of this field, but I cannot move. Why will I not move? I am waiting, though I know not what for. There is something coming, coming to me as I wait in the field. Do I go to meet it? Can I move? Will I? There is a strong wind now and it blows with the scent of rain—the scent of rain and the scent of change. My hair is whipping around my face, the grass is dancing, and my heart and breath are in a race. I am standing in a field, golden in the sun, but the sky begins to cloud… the rain has begun.