An old crippled leaf twisted bent and brown
See-saws through the crisp air
And reminds me that yellow apples wait to be picked
Soon pumpkins will be growing fat and orange in tangled fields
White pulled cotton wisps sink towards the ground
The pavement comes up and turns them into large wet spots
I see through the rain streaked front bay window
A damp grey squirrel is scampering into the crook of a dead tree
The fire needs stoking but still crackles and snaps glassy red
Two cats stretch out like mink pelts with their head near the hearth
Beef stew simmers in a cast iron pot on the stove while bread bakes inside
I smell the smoke. It is like a tonic and the food, the food of the gods
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