Frost lets go in the night. By morning the field has opinions again — green ones, pushing up through last year's gold, insisting on starting over.
Light pools on the floor of the afternoon. The bees keep the books, the river runs slow and warm, and the days stretch out like cats on stone, in no hurry to end.
The trees spend everything they have — copper, rust, impossible red — and call it generosity. What falls is not lost; it is being delivered, to the roots, to next year.
Snow files the world away. Under it, the year rehearses quietly — every seed a folded letter, waiting for the address it already knows.