The Advent of Autumn
I’m staring down the nearly-empty aisle of trees; they’ve nothing but the morning mist keeping them company. Soon it’ll be too cold for those mists: I can already feel the summer dying, deep in my bones. Each moment is a step closer to the frigid winter, when Mother Nature’s nurturing warm embrace turns into an icy grip, crushing what it once created.
I know it’s all a cycle; you don’t have to tell me that. Some day, a season or two down, from those dead things will spring new life. But still and still, I can’t help but feel those last gasps of the life that is now. It still struggles, against the almighty tides of eventuality, to hang on to whatever purchase it has for just a moment longer. I watch as a leaf drifts, almost casually, down to the dirt.
Weeping willows at their height have no tears like an oak in the fall.