I’ve driven the same route home for two weeks now, since the roads have been devoured by plastic match-stick men their over-sized Tonka trucks coughing black dust through air ways, their cones on every lane I watch the road wind like a slinky, cars rolling around the curves, home their only destination I watch the way the trees stretch their matte green leaves into the fading sun and wonder what colors their deaths will bring wonder if the locusts and crickets will chirp a song for the dieing before burrowing into earth and all the soil settles, a grave for every death there’s something to be said about autumn, its sad winds chilly and destined to weep the hard rains that lead to winter I think winter is calling us; a Southern Comfort voice in the coming darkness, beckoning each of us home, a reminder to stay in from the cold