THE FIRST SOUND OF WINTER

The air smells of rain and smoke,

a thin trace of oak logs

and wet leaves breaking down in the ditch.

The light leans lower each day,

not gold anymore, but a pale,

tired yellow, soft as breath.

The trees have gone mostly bare.

Their last leaves hang like thoughts

that can’t quite let go.

When the wind moves through,

it sounds like paper being crinkled,

a slow shuffling of seasons.

Underfoot, the ground gives a little,

spongy, cold, full of hidden water.

Each step carries the scent of earth rising,

the way it does before it freezes.

Moss glows green against the dark bark,

a small persistence of color.

Across the field, a line of starlings lifts,

their wings flashing silver in the dull light.

A dog barks once, then nothing.

Even the sound seems to travel slower now.

The air has an edge to it,

not yet winter, but close enough

that your breath shows its shape.

Somewhere nearby, a creek murmurs

under a skin of ice too thin to hold anything.

I rest my hand on a fencepost

rough with lichen and cold to the touch.

The sky feels heavy with waiting.

In that long pause

between leaf-fall and snow,

the world holds still,

listening for what comes next.