Swirling specters scatter cinnamon maple leaves, whirling dervishes, they dance in autumn snow. Wind breathes life, then stops.
I would stop but the dogs pull through slick pools of layered leaf litter, a spill of wet red color seeps into wine dark puddles left from last night’s rain.
Just hours ago, a gray day a hint of sun at ten, and blue. But now it’s settled into quiet light, an end of year contemplative light.
A wise light that gives the year a voice, gives the day a meaning, illuminates falling leaves; a soft blanket over bright, cold truth.
Monica lives in the San Francisco Bay Area with her husband and two foster dogs. She taught parents how to raise their toddlers for twenty-five years before retiring in 2015 to write. The secret to toddlers is to make sure you get enough sleep. Monica hasn't found the secret to writing, yet, but is diligently working at it. See links to her on-line stories on the publications page.
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Monica's Monday Morning Flash 