8:30 a.m. and
the sun dawns
clear and golden
on the milky blue sky,
illuminating trees
and the yellow brick
of the belltower.

The air is so crisp
and clear that
when you smile,
your teeth get cold,
and your lips
turn blue from
peppermint lip balm
and the chill air.

On a morning like this,
your breath hovers
on the still air
like a smoky wraith,
or wispy mist
that blows past you
as you walk briskly on.

All around you,
trees rain down
golden leaves
in a soft,
pitter-patter sound
that turns to crunch
and swish
as you walk.

There is frost
on the ground,
and soon autumn
will turn to winter.

And then your teeth
will hurt,
laughing into the
lovely, frigid wind.