When the sun sets low in the afternoon sky

and the world is painted with brushes

dipped in blood red and gilded edges

the solitary grackle glides between purple shadows



The slow fires emerging on the horizon

can’t be doused nor quieted,

only muted by the furious rain

that washes away warmth that was Summer



As the scent of woodsmoke fills the air

and whiskey chases away the chill that

approaches on howling winds

Autumn announces its arrival







prompts: MadVerse 452 and 9/21





photo: mine