October mornings

are the chill of the dark, the ice on the ground, the light and heat of the risen sun, and the mist that is born from its alchemy. In the airy month of October, the mist is like smoke rising from the flame-colored leaves, sharply aglow, dancing to the bent morning light, while melted frost and leaves rain down from tree-crowns. The death of the year is brilliant and full; quiet, too, but for the rustling, restive wind and its birds.