The Snowflake Chronicles

Prose Poem: An Imperfect Fall Day

An Imperfect Fall Day

In Las Vegas, it is an imperfect fall day. The leaves on the oak trees are still green and on the trees. The weeds in my front yard look healthy and appear to have tiny white blooms. The morning air is chilly, but not cold. A sweat suit top or sweater is enough to keep me warm when I go outside. I have a ski jacket in the car, but I have used it only once this month and that was the day I had to stand outside in a line.

It is an imperfect fall morning without leaves dropping from trees. There is a slight wind, but it barely moves the limbs on the olive tree across the street. When I look out my kitchen window one or two of the oleander bushes, or perhaps I should call them trees, are in bloom. It is cool enough for a neighbor's dog to be outside all day without getting too hot or too cold.

It is an imperfect autumn day in Las Vegas. The morning sun cast shadows through the leaves on the trees. The neighbors' cats can prowl the neighborhood without the stress of rain or the fear of getting their fur wet. I mess the perfect fall days of an Oklahoma autumn when the leaves on the trees change color in October. I miss trying on warm heavy coats in anticipation of snow on a cold winter's day.

It is an imperfect autumn morning in Las Vegas without leaves falling from the trees and a wind chill factor freezing the water coming from a neighbor's sprinklers. At 66, I should not complain about the nice weather or the lack of fall foliage, but I miss the changing leaves of a perfect autumn day in Oklahoma.