Between the Last Flame and the First Frost

The light bends lower now,

like it’s tired of holding up the sky.

In the orchard, the air smells of endings—

smoke, wet wool, and the ghost of cider.

You can hear the world closing its throat:

the hush before snow learns its voice.

A barn door stutters in the wind,

hinges complaining softly,

like bones that remember summer.

Evening arrives on the backs of crows—

their wings slicing the dusk

into slower pieces.

You taste copper in the wind,

a spark from somewhere unseen,

and know the firewood will not last.

Still, you light it—

small defiance,

a ritual of heat and hope.

Behind the glass,

your breath writes brief poems on the window,

melting as quickly as they appear.

And when silence settles,

you realize:

this is the sound of turning—

the season, the earth,

and maybe,

you.