End of Day

Bare trees are silhouetted against early twilight, windows glow in the old stone; French drifts out from the family in the front apartment; cutlery sounds against china as tables are set. All around the complex, people settle back into these homes, birds returning to nests.

Everyday Travel

The majesty of every bridge. The way every city glitters like Oz as it rises in the distance.

Saturday Morning

The storybook ideal of fall: A neighborhood of large, old stone houses and vividly colored trees. All around a maple, the ground is carpeted with orange and red, and the sun slants through the tree's remaining leaves.

Late October

Cold air, dark blue sky. Stillness and the chirping and twittering of night things.

Last Light

Just before the sun sets, it bursts across the tops of things. Then the autumn trees look like Tiffany lamps, mosaics of green and gold and crimson.

Fall Fruit

A friend posts to Facebook about eating pomegranates. I consider how far I am from the pomegranates that grew in my backyard and think of all the crisp-tart apples I picked last weekend.

Glow

A string of white lights in a glass jar, like a hundred fireflies on a summer evening.

Haunt

A chill October night. A one room schoolhouse in the middle of a graveyard: Candles flicker across walls, pumpkins, dried corn stalks. The smell of hot cider. Ghost stories.