The leaves are peaking. It's a surprise, one of the many ways I've recently miscalculated. I haven't spent many falls in this place; I had it in my head that the trees would flame out toward the end of October, during a time I was away. But I staggered off the plane into green, and since then that green has been leaching away, the trees giving themselves over, inch by inch, to the sickening glory of fall.
Fall is leprosy. It's a loveliness that marks you, has no cure. It hooks into your jaw, scrapes your lips. It's unsparing and assertive and a little bit mean -and you love it anyway, because you have to, because you've always loved it and can't seem to stop.
So many mistakes. Imagining the world to be a kinder place than it has proved itself to be. Thinking you can change what is. That second waffle. And on, and on.
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