When the trees lay to the ground, the Summer regalia, the sundresses of Verdant lace, now faded. Ochre, orange and sage. The once magnificent canopy strewn on the floor like a discarded quilt. A blanket not meant for bed or dressing a seat. Laundry on the floor. I rub my eyes and breath deeply the dry, nutty smell of salted fern, mushroom and earth. Oak, the last leaves to shed flick and click recklessly through empty trees. One leaf here, one there an odd and ancient percussion. A clock, whose spring has wound past the last unwinding. Unlike the bustling parlor of Summer sunshine, birdsong and rustling green, Autumn whispers in dry grasses. Hissing, swishing sound warmer than the air. I am compelled to lay down, below the breezy reach and dream into the gray wisp that rolls above the fractal hands.