This morning, a heavy gray pallor hems the edge of the sky to the woods. I hear no birdsong, no mourning dove calls, no chattering squirrels—only silence. The scent of autumn tickles my nose as the aroma of dew-clad grass greets me. A delicate breeze stirs the leaves, gray green with age; they rasp together singing a dirge at summer’s end.
new coolness spider webs spun in grass the moon's needlework © Colleen M. Chesebro