Fall, falling, fallen. That's the way the season br Changes its tense in the long-haired maples br That dot the road; the veiny hand-shaped leaves br Redden on their branches (in a fiery competition br With the final remaining cardinals) and then br Begin to sidle and float through the air, at last br Settling into colorful layers carpeting the ground. br At twilight the light, too, is layered in the trees br In a season of odd, dusky congruences—a scarlet tanager br And the odor of burning leaves, a golden retriever br Loping down the center of a wide street and the sun br Setting behind smoke-filled trees in the distance, br A gap opening up in the treetops and a bruised cloud br Blamelessly filling the space with purples. Everything br Changes and moves in the split second between summer's br Sprawling past and winter's hard revision, one moment br Pulling out of the station according to schedule, br Another moment arriving on the next platform. It br Happens almost like clockwork: the leaves drift away br From their branches and gather slowly at our feet, br Sliding over our ankles, and the season begins moving br Around us even as its colorful weather moves us, br Even as it pulls us into its dusty, twilit pockets. br And every year there is a brief, startling moment br When we pause in the middle of a long walk home and br Suddenly feel something invisible and weightless br Touching our shoulders, sweeping down from the air: br It is the autumn wind pressing against our bodies; br It is the changing light of fall falling on us.