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.