It's been chilly and bleak in Ohio. The color grey dominates the days now. The pumpkins that are still staring at those passing on the street are rotting grotesquely. The mums that once announced the genesis of fall are shriveled and thin. At the slightest provocation they crumble.
A wise person might look at the landscape and pronounce everything dead.
They would be wrong.
Everything's dead but the wind, which is now in its element. It sends the few remaining leaves scuttling. It animates the reluctant trees to bend their branches into the arthritic fingers of winter. It whistles through the alleys and around the corners of our house. It reddens our cheeks and pinches the tops of our ears.
No, everything is not dead. Winter is just waking up and beginning to hum it's favorite tune.
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