I got the ax out of the chicken coop to split the wood for the first autumn fire. Without ceremony, I hung the lawn chairs in the garage for the season and put away the hammock and lawn furniture. A jigsaw puzzle of large, bulky items knotted together by the tractor and generator. The season the mice and rats make a play to come indoors, and the cat stands watch by the upper loft with serial killer precision. October is a much different month than its predecessor, looming in the doorway with hit-man eyes glowing in the dark. We’ve put the heat back on for early morning comfort, that soft purr: the cat curling into the vents where it blows from the floor. And outside the bistro light timer trips at 6, the fog rolls in to choke the moon, and in the dark of morning Orion’s belt is back, it sparkles in the crystals on the pavement and bends us back to the end, to where we all began.

Categories: prose, writing

Tags: autumn poetry, nature poetry, pacific northwest, short form, short prose, William Pearse writer