There's something of a haze out there
even in the cold air, and through the wind.
It settles in the Midwest, as if mountains
should be towering above. But there are
none.  Littering the sidewalks are these
piles of leaves smelling of old must, and
trailing on boot soles.  Naked trees.  Sights
so forlorn and unknown to me before, singular
and close like the wet smack of feet on the ground
when someone close to me trips.  When I trip.
Slogging through Fall like nothing at all.