Crisp wind slips under collars, leaves crunch like old bones underfoot. Rain taps slow Morse on the window- gray code for stay. Mug steams, socks damp, yet something settles, warm as soup. Branches sway drunk, gold ones bleeding out- still pretty while they rot. You grin at thunder, call it music, pull me close so breaths match. Fall does that: cools the blood, reminds us we\'re not iced yet.