With heavy sigh
A single leaf falls
The first I've caught in the act

It slides down my right shoulder
Kissing my skin with parched lips
'Save me,'
It whispers
"No,"
I sing

A single, skittering chipmunk
Bounds across the soggy banks
Of Lake Fred
Unafraid and nearly near enough to touch
But keenly and instinctually aware
Of my innate barbarism
He keeps his distance

"Did you see that?"
I call to him
Pointing to the crumpled leaf beside me
"Summer is dying."

The chipmunk stops
Cranes its neck and twitches its whiskers in consideration
And replies
'Of course it is,
What else would it do?'

The air has begun to adopt that
damp and coppery hint of decay,
every breath a syrupy drop of autumn.  
Each morning
the chorus of birds that greet the rising sun thins,
its members gradually cashing in on their accrued vacation time
and jetting off to winter homes in Florida.  
Tourists.
All birds are tourists.
They won't be here to see the snow
turn to viscera under the tread of our lesser travels.
  No,
they'll be tanning by gated watering holes,
discussing the downward trend in early worm returns.