Last night, swathed in the dark of my room, I sat upon the bed, looking out upon the eigengrau sky, vacant of moonlight and star luster, and the shadows of pitch and depth.

The wind gave touch to the magnolia, sounding a percussion that hasn’t been audible in nearly a year, sounds of bronze and falling water.

I was keenly aware of the autumn precipice, the scent of one season absorbing the other, the faint chill accenting my home, bedroom, and body…cedar, juniper, rosemary, wood sage, sea salt, lavender, and apple.

I caught a flash of movement, inky in hue and flow, and I watched as this shadow slipped like quicksilver, until it was nothing more than the imperceptible breeze…a fox of fluidity, and cricket strings, and the distant train blaring its speed.

E.A. O'Connell. November 2018