a month in burnt umber

October in ten oranges seduces you. It's not a flirting, dancing seduction. It's a seduction of presence, of beauty, of openness. It's a seduction of the crunch under your shoes and the sun filtering through trees not quite naked. October's crows fly over your head and playfully, they mix the air. You tilt your head back and worry, for just a moment, that autumn is a myth; that all there really exists is the uncomfortable pressure of summer's end compacted into winter's start. The rustle of wind breathing leaves across the street calls you back to now. October runs fingers down the back of your neck and reminds you, all there is is now.