In the shadow of year’s end, a tired dribble of twilight musings unleashes thoughts muddled and unrestrained. They fall on damp forest floors.

The smell of pines might clarify, might of a sudden reveal the intentions of close-mouthed colorful shedding trees.

Autumn cold settles like a fog on layers of soft loam. Earthworms transform decomposing leaf mold into soil.

The worms feel sleep coming on and burrow deeper, warmer. Their heat keeps the planet humming even as cool air portends a slowing.

Spores burst from a deteriorating toadstool. Lacy umbrellas unfurl. The Little People sip warm cider at season’s turning.