The trees are bare and naked
As they shiver in the winds biting lashes
The soft chirp of the summer bugs, gone.
The dark comes quicker and the sun hides behind a faraway horizon,
Even the grass finds itself a paler shade of green, the flowers (their inhabitants)
No where to be found.
Clouds rush past my view, running to stay ahead of winters chill
This is surely winter
And I have no appointment being here.