Autumn

Autumn's breath is cool and damp.  It's harvest time.  Mother Nature has hardened her smile; has been around plucking the many innocent souls of fallen flora and fauna and dropping them into Her berry bucket.  Plunk.  Plunk.  Plunk.  The ravens follow her.  Death leans against the door jamb, in the shadows, watching me like he knows something with certainty.  The ravens follow him.  Cats go feral and inexplicably electric.  In the highlands, huckleberry bushes show signs of being roughly picked over; in the lowlands, the elderberry and chokecherry bushes have given their best.  The garden looks like it has a history of spousal abuse and fermentation.  Women are sweating in harvest kitchens.  Sharp-eyed men survey the forest, looking for the standing dead, armed with tuned chainsaws, tough gloves, an axe and a good pickup.  Elk and deer turn their ears, anxious about the first rifle shot of the season. The ravens lead the hunters; wait around for the gut pile.  The bear turns from his foraging and gleaning and assays his chance at the apple tree.  Colors.  Wet.  Quiet.  Waiting.  Death lights a cigarette in the dark doorway.