The color of the sky is a crisp, autumn blue,
Occasionally interrupted by
Cotton in clouds,
Cotton from fireweed stalks,
Cotton from the trees bearing it's name;
Whisps of white that float like alien entities
On an unseen breeze.
The geese who fly briefly overhead,
Call in cackles of noise,
Short bursts like laughter,
Musical and faint,
They leave when the winds rip the trees
And the frost nips the ground,
Painting the leaves of plants in silver glitter.
It is fall; the leaves are gold
And burnt umber in the trees,
Rattling with the breezes, stiff and brittle,
Falling to the ground like the last note
Of a sad song.
A blanket for the Earth when the snow falls,
A patchwork quilt of warm colors,
A reminder of what summer was.
But the days are still lazy warm,
The sun overhead is bright;
Chasing away the rains more common
The air is a fresh, crisp breath,
A reminder of the oncoming winter,
And yet still a taste of the summer
That has not left.
Sitting out in the sun,
Basking, in it's glow,
With feet curling toes into cold green grass,
Chilled by shade cast by a tree,
Tickled by frigid dew left
By frost melting in the warm sun.