Like torches held aloft, 
a patchwork of copper and gold trees
dapple the terrain.

Merciless, a sudden gust sweeps through,
stripping the boughs,
sending a storm of color whirling
to the ground.

A lone jogger slows to a walk,
bewitched by the dried leaves’ crunch
beneath his every step.

Children kick through mounds of fallen foliage —
scarves trailing, breath visible,
voices rising —
before dusk hushes the field.

Meanwhile,
migrating birds gather in quiet bustle,
preparing for another arduous journey.

Squirrels chase frantic circuits around the oaks:
storing what they can
before frost hardens the ground.

Vacant park benches along the path
are abandoned until spring,
bearing silent witness to the season’s retreat.

The air smells of smoke and damp earth.

The sky darkens early,
the sun a muted ember —
sliding behind bare branches.

And those deciduous spires,
now weathered and bare,
stretch into the ceaseless chill.

Carissa is a writer and journalist from Southern California. Her work has been recognized by the European Cultural Foundation, the Bergen International Literary Festival, and the Pulitzer Center, among others. She is an avid traveler and has visited 34 countries (and counting!)

Leave a comment