October passes quietly in a flourish of pastels.
Its brightest days are as special as they are brief.
Its touch is deep and long-lasting,
And its passing leaves us, as it does all of nature,
Grey, exposed and vulnerable.
When November comes the trees have dropped their leaves;
The sun is sluggish with the cold and rides atop a sullen mist,
Just above the oak tops, to the south.
The breezes, like rowdy children, toss the leaves in each other’s faces.
The rustling and the rattling is their laughter,
And the memory of their laughter is our joy.