This morning, a heavy gray pallor hems the edge of the sky to the woods. I hear no birdsong, no mourning dove calls, no chattering squirrels—only silence. The scent of autumn tickles my nose as the aroma of dew-clad grass greets me. A delicate breeze stirs the leaves, gray green with age; they rasp together singing a dirge at summer’s end.

new coolness
spider webs spun in grass
the moon's needlework

© Colleen M. Chesebro

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