Autumn Air

A chill creeps in at morningtime, the harbinger of winter climes, and yet the crispness feels divine; at least it does to me. There’s a scent of moldering leaves, they flutter down upon the breeze, the earth below they all will feed; how it is meant to be. Then comes a whiff of new wood smoke, no, not the kind that hippies toke, a fire that warms like a cloak; it kicks up the degrees. Out for a walk, the scent of blood, that’s coming from the neighbor, Doug, the deer he hunted, now he cuts; a winter’s worth of meat. This raw whiskey, it smells so strong, in liquor stores in don’t belong, liquid apple pie can’t be wrong; the autumn chill it beats.