The leaves are turning those familiar shades and hues.
They're morphing from green to yellow, orange, and red.
Eventually they'll pluck themselves from the branches among the trees.
Carried on the Autumn wind,
The leaves will disperse.
They drift away to later collect and blanket the ground.
Foreshadowing the coming
of pure white snow from the heavens,
Burying the great contrast of rotting brown and gray.

That time though hasn't come yet.
I stand here,
Like I do every year,
Letting the world pass me by
Cycling its ancient functions.
I'm content in the feel of my chilled,
Swept hair billowing in the wind.
I'm reminded of the smell of maple in all its forms.
From sticky-sweet syrup to savory pumpkin pie,
To wash it all down with delicious apple cider.

Sound of the crisp leaves crunching underneath my feet
return me from my daze.
I begin to see the fog upon my breath
dissipate in the setting sun,
Putting into question whether I should return home or not.

The eventual walk home is quiet.
I take a last look at the remnants of sun
Reflecting off the crescent moon
Joined by the twilight of thousands of twinkling wished upon stars,
I'll see you all tomorrow.