The wind blew roughly through the dried and dead leaves that hadn’t yet been ripped from their former homes in the trees and shrubs surrounding the cottage. It was the kind of autumn day that started with the need of a pea coat and hat, leading to a middle afternoon warm enough for the need of a loose fitting shirt, before rapidly cooling to someplace requiring a sweater or coat again. Most days had been like this lately and she had relished every one of them.
She sat wrapped in a loose shawl at the wrought iron table on the front porch listening to the rustle of the leaves, the birds singing in their final songs before migrating farther south for the cold months, and the children down the lane on their way home from school…
Yellow the bracken,
Golden the sheaves,
Crimson the apples,
Scarlett the leaves…
The steam was still rising from the cup of tea on the table before her as she sat staring absentmindedly into the middle horizon and humming along with the children but in the round, basking in the increasing chill that came with the sun sinking low, the lengthening shadows, and the winds blowing from the north.
Mist on the hillside,
Clouds are grey and white,
Autumn good morning,
In an instant, an eerie chill crept up her spine as she dropped off the last line of the song realizing that her voice was the only sound to be heard and everything else had gone deathly still…
Brought to you by this Ragtag Daily Prompt.
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