AUTUMN'S BREATH

I plan on saying this once, then denying it henceforth: I actually appreciate autumn.

Autumn's breath is cool and damp.  It's harvest time.  Mother Nature has hardened her smile; has been around plucking many innocent souls of fallen flora and fauna and dropping them into Her berry bucket.  The ravens follow her.  Death slumps against the door jamb, in the shadows, watching me like he knows something with certainty.  The ravens follow him.  Cats go feral and inexplicably electric.   In the highlands, huckleberry bushes show signs of being picked over; in the lowlands, the elderberry and huckleberry bushes have given their best.  The garden looks like it has a history of spousal abuse and fermentation.  People are sweating in harvest kitchens.  Sharp-eyed men survey the forest, looking for the standing dead, armed with tuned chainsaws, tough gloves, an axe and a good pickup.  Elk and deer turn their ears, anxious about the first rifle shot of the season.  The ravens follow the hunters.  The ravens lead the hunters.  The bear turns from his foraging and gleaning and assays his chance at the apple tree.  Colors.  Wet.  Quiet.  Waiting.  Death lights a cigarette in the dark doorway.