The rain is steady.
Grey holds the day
between its cold shoulders.
Time is slowing
as leaves sow themselves
onto the ground,
waiting to turn into earth again.

The trees burn softly,
their scarlet and gold embers
firing the passions of summer.
Others are already bare,
blackened branches
against the hearth of sky.

Even the crows are quiet,
no longer striping the air
with their cries.

We are all returning,
sinking into soil
as the sun lowers and leaves.