The wind blew. A morning sun angled through the trees, and chimes in the neighborhood rang an alarm of something approaching with a howling from above in the pine trees and a deep gust creating wave-like splashes of leaves and foam rolling from the fallen red and brown around my feet. A hawk drifted with wings stretched out, hanging in the blue sky, carving broad turns. And crows flew, diving and fighting against the wind like acrobats, then letting go and letting it rush them through the air with great speed, their play and pleasure undeniable. 

There was something about this cold, chill wind against my face that felt comforting. Dust blew through the streets, and I saw a pickup like the one I used to own, and I remembered its smell, sliding into the seat, the sound of it starting, and all the things from a time before. I could hear the crows and the shaking trees. And I watched the fall colors of decay swirl through the air––making way for the winter rains, the new green of spring, and for whatever comes next.