Lows in the 40s, crisp night air,
crackling bonfires and sweaters held close.
Apples are like fists,
pummeling the ground
while the breeze shakes them free.
There’s a familiar scent in the air
last present a year ago with dim skies
and spooky shadows.
The sun sets earlier and earlier,
the darkness holds on longer,
and heartier meals are being prepared.
Schedules are adjusted,
it’s a new beginning while so much is ending,
and we are as prepared as we can while the geese flow away,
flapping their wings in earnest
as if to brush away the chasing autumn.
Shoo, shoo, shoo,
the pumping of their wings dictate,
while my crochet needle catches the dying light
and the growing blanket pools over my lap.
Warm in the low 40s, soft in the crisp air,
a smoke catcher of bonfire scents held close.