Leaves loosen their grip
with the confidence of dancers
who know the floor will meet them.
They spin down in quiet spirals,
each a small, deliberate goodbye
brushed in fire.

The air sharpens—
crisp as the snap of an apple skin,
cool enough that breath curls
like a secret escaping lips.

Squirrels sift through the lawn,
their paws quick and certain,
as if time has tightened—
and they’re the only ones who noticed.

A gust slips through the trees,
lifting the branches’ thin bones
into a soft, creaking stretch.

Somewhere, a swing set shivers
through an empty playground.

Evening arrives early,
painting long shadows
that stretch like lazy cats
across the sidewalk.

A porch light flickers,
catching the first drift of smoke
from a chimney testing its voice.

And the world, without announcement,
leans into its quiet turning—