Where the Cold Begins to Sing

The wind's first cold breath tastes of iron-

thin and mineral-rich,

like licking a blade left out in the cold.

It slips between my teeth,

stinging the back of my tongue

with the promise of colder things.

It threads through the trees with a papery rasp,

a dry flutter,

like old pages turning themselves.

What leaves remain shiver upward,

their edges frayed

like singed cloth,

as if the wind is searching for the last crisp sound of autumn.

Branches creak and click together,

bone tapping bone in the dimming light.

When I drag my hand along the trunk,

the bark splinters softly-

powdering beneath my figertips,

flakes gathering in the grooves of my skin

like charcoal dust.

A crow rips its call across the sky-

a ragged,

metal-on-metal cry

that grinds at the air.

The sound settles into my ribs

with a dull,

heavy thump,

the way cold water presses against you

when you wade in too far.

Rotting apples soften under my boots-

wet,

spongy,

skins bursting with a quiet hiss.

The scent of their ferment rises warm and syrup-thick,

cloying at the edges,

a sweetness that borders on rot,

a scent that smells both feast,

and funeral.

Nearby,

smoke unspools into the wind-

a thin silver thread.

It tastes of cedar resin and damp soil,

a curl of warmth threading the back of my throat.

It settles into my hair,

into the fabric of my sleeves,

a reminder of fires coaxed from stubborn kindling.

The light thins to a grainy softness,

draping over rock and water

like wool pulled loose from its weave.

The lake holds still-

surface tightening to glass,

unyielding,

reflecting only what it must.

Underfoot,

the soil stiffens,

a soft cracking as roots contract

and the earth relearns the shape of frost.

Each step carries a muted crunch,

a private rehearsal for winter.

The wind grazes my cheek

with a cool,

sandpapered drag,

lifting the fine hairs along my jaw.

In its throat,

a low hum coils-

felt more than heard,

a vibration pressed into bone.

My breath leaves me in a pale drift,

hanging too long in the thickening air.

Every sound has edges now:

the crisp snap of twigs,

the dry hiss of grass bending,

the soft thump of something small

burrowing deep.

Even the field exhales differently-

a long,

settling sigh

that makes the air shiver.

The world dims by slow degrees,

a dimming you only notice

once everything carries

the hush of held breath.

In that pause,

the first snow gathers itself-

not falling,

but forming,

a soft static you can almost taste.

And if you stand still enough,

you can hear it-

the subtle tightening of the atmosphere,

a tremor of cold beneath the skin,

the quiet seam

where the last warmth of autumn

meets the first chill of winter.

A shift so soft

it enters only through the senses-

a whisper brushing your cheek,

a metallic tang blooming on the tongue,

the cold beginning to sing.