The Rust of Autumnal Light

The copper sky thins into a needle's eye, threading the last of the marigold heat through the ribs of the black oaks. The ground is a parchment of brittle veins.

We walk where the shadows have grown teeth, long and blue against the white-washed fence. There is a silence that tastes of iron, a sudden cooling in the marrow of the wind.

Nothing stays gold in this economy of loss. The light is a spendthrift, throwing its last coins into the deep pockets of the river, where the current swallows the sun without a sound.

Wait for the first frost to claim the glass. The stars are coming out like salt on a wound, and the world turns its face to the dark, learning the language of the root and the stone.