The odor of wet, stirred dry decay in a rush of air (cooler moving), carried away.
The breeze peeks beneath a tan leaf, then lays it back: the earth’s worn bed linen.
Nature dons its tattered comforter knit and stitched by its own self, shed in variegated layers, now covering its dormant feet. An evidence of life, soon past.
Autumn, the year’s eventide when fat squirrels, under brush and dirt, hide their bedtime snacks and tall trees brazenly discard their summer garments to stand wrinkled and naked against the deepening chill.