The air has an ironic warmth. Its thickness is particular to itself.


Nothing can mimic the scent of October air

The individuality of it contradicts itself,

Heavy,


Dense,



almost palpable, yet
crisp, sometimes stinging in its cold indifference.

Trees are patchy in spots, some more

bald

than others.

The menagerie of leafy hues match the sky in varied color.

Night comes quicker and quicker each day.

The sun

slacks even in the daylight hours, lounging

Behind a sea of grayed clouds, lazily

tossing its rays here and there, creating a spectrum of colors.

The leaves have begun their gradual
descent
groundward, submitting to the
pull of gravity.

Branches jab skyward,

Dour in their partial bareness and

Harsh appearance.

Fall


A fall it is.

The land is showing clear signs of its yearly trek toward

Death
and

Cold neutrality.

Grass and plant life are paling.

The air is

too biting
for them,
The ground

too hard and rocky.

People retreat to their homes.
Some days

The wind is

too sharp,

too rough.

The sky is a constant achromatic color.

November has arrived.

Each day the earth marches toward its annual demise.

closer and


closer it treads, a
constant clip.

Never faltering.

The fall has run its course, and
like a city in ruin, all
is silent and callous.

Even the air’s sweet smell has


disappeared,

Leaving only a cringe-inducing chill in its place.

The trees are now

barren,

giving up any semblance of youth or virility,

their cruel shapes casting


threatening shadows
in the moonlit sky.


It is now December.