The Rust of Rain

The iron gate sheds flakes of orange skin, peeling back the years of damp neglect under the relentless drum of November rain.

Water gathers in the hollows of the path, reflecting a fractured, gray-bellied sky, where the ghost of summer cannot survive.

A lone crow watches from the oak tree's skeletal reach, its feathers slick like oil on the wet pavement, waiting for the storm to wash the world away.