The Last Breath of Autumn

It’s that in-between hum —

where the maples still show off their dying bravado,

but the wind’s started whispering

like it knows a secret ending.

The air tastes metallic,

sharp as bitten apple skin.

Leaves crackle underfoot — paper promises

I never mailed,

and I probably wouldn’t now.

A crow rehearses loneliness

on a fence of rusted nails,

its caw a hinge between seasons —

a sound that swings but never settles.

The sunlight thins —

a stretched-out thread pulled through gray fabric.

Even the clouds seem heavier,

pregnant with the first unsaid snow.

I breathe,

and the air bites back.

The trees, stripped of pretense,

raise their bare arms to a sky

too pale to care.

Somewhere between harvest smoke

and frost’s first kiss,

the world exhales —

a long, tired sigh that says,

let go.