Cusp

Dead leaves crackle in the air today, not underfoot.
A whiff of wood smoke wafts overhead tho' no fires blaze
yet the burning bush smolders red at the edges.
Flights of Canada geese horn their intentions;
no mere meander--they are flying high.
My bare feet are chilly as I walk the dog.
She freezes, one paw lifted, nose in the air:
a fawn, ignoring Labor Day traditions,
has already traded white for brown.
The crabapple tree is shedding summer--
cinnamon sleep approaches.
A lone leaf begins its fall.