Between the Rust and the Rain

Autumn doesn't announce itself with fanfare or ceremony— it steals in through the seams, turns the green to benediction in colors no painter would choose.

The trees undress without shame, their nakedness a kind of strength, and we watch from below, counting the days by falling leaves until we forget what we were counting.

There's a silence that lives here, in the space between what was and what will be, where nothing grows but everything transforms.

Even the light changes its mind, bends different through the thinning branches, finds new angles to fall, teaches us that nothing gold can stay— not because it fades, but because it must.