It's fall, and so we change, because it seems the thing to do. Out come the puffy collared ghetto jackets. The homeless stake-out bridges, the wood-burning stand back to look at their woodpiles, hands on hips, cynical. And here at school, we lucky few worry over marks on paper.
It's fall, and so even litter takes on a certain amount of significance. The waste of trees is hard to ignore. Our waste in turn becomes a kind of monument to the things we needed for our energy, and then dropped behind us.
It's fall, and the sky is a blue that can break hearts. On a day like this, I wonder how we go about the mundane, faces down, hair tied back against the wind, without turning our faces to the cold sun and howling. Flocks of birds move across the parking lots, and I can hear the call, too. It's a time for moving.
It's fall. The world does its best to shake us up, exploding into a riot of color, but we lucky few do our best to ignore it.
It's fall, and so even litter takes on a certain amount of significance. The waste of trees is hard to ignore. Our waste in turn becomes a kind of monument to the things we needed for our energy, and then dropped behind us. 
It's fall, and the sky is a blue that can break hearts. On a day like this, I wonder how we go about the mundane, faces down, hair tied back against the wind, without turning our faces to the cold sun and howling. Flocks of birds move across the parking lots, and I can hear the call, too. It's a time for moving. 
It's fall. The world does its best to shake us up, exploding into a riot of color, but we lucky few do our best to ignore it. 
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