Where October Begins

You enter October through a gate that was not there in September. It stands between two trees, rusted, half open, waiting.

Beyond it, the road is covered with wet leaves that shine like old coins. The air smells of smoke, apples, and rain caught in wood.

Houses appear slowly. Their windows glow before evening. Porches hold pumpkins with patient, crooked faces. Somewhere, a screen door closes. Somewhere else, someone is chopping wood.

You walk farther. October does not hurry. It gives you a river dark beneath the branches, a field emptied of summer, a bench damp with mist. Crows gather on a telephone wire as if they have been expecting you.

The path narrows near the forest. There are acorns under your shoes. Mushrooms rise beside fallen trunks. The wind moves through the trees with the sound of pages turning.

Then you see the house. No road leads to it. No smoke leaves its chimney. One upstairs window is lit. You are certain it was dark a moment ago.

Do not knock. October contains places that are beautiful because you do not enter them.

Keep walking. Soon the woods open onto a hill. Below, the village has disappeared beneath fog. A bonfire burns somewhere unseen. You hear laughter, then nothing.

Night arrives early here. It gathers first beneath the trees, then crosses the fields, then settles over the road behind you.

By the time you turn back, the gate is gone. You search for the path. Leaves cover everything. The cold deepens.

Far away, a porch light comes on.

You walk toward it.

And October, quietly closing around you, lets you believe you are going home.