Flowers sling over one another, leaning gracefully toward the ground. Undernourished, half-withered, half dead, petals brown around the edges, stems limp in the wind.
We've always thought autumn the most fantastic season, but not this year. Dying leaves always slightly disturbed, the crunchiest skeletons under our feet.
Always a reminder of held hands, intensity, picking up a handful of chips...
No, it was the smell, the air intoxicating with slight staleness- the smell of old sweaters, thrust to the bottom of a dresser for only occasional use.
Bugs, bugs! Everywhere! We feel them in our hair, but it's only the grass, slightly yellowed already.
Tickling our face, our hair, confusing, tickled tickling ticking time.
One cloud hovers behind our old spruce through a window of teardrop branches. Framed inside is one weathery feather of wisp. A car zooms near here, howling out crunchy dirt screams.
I stand up and my eyes scan the dusty road.