The Refuge


They say it’s peak season but, not every leaf has yet to turn. Some trees stand bare like scarecrow and bleed sunsets. I love when this time of year comes; the smells, the sounds of crackling leaves. All the same but somehow different each time.

We saw a single leaf parachute to the ground. How it pirouetted mid-air like a crumpled ballerina, I could not keep my eyes off of it. But when I looked over it was you staring back at me.

Isn’t it funny how something can grow bare and yet, it’s not growing anything at all?

We walked past a swamp where old utility poles stood tall. Rotten roots twisted up, poked through the muddy waters like crocodile jaws. I wondered if those poles were ever used. I wanted to know how many people connected through them.

“Want to see how fast we could climb up them?” You asked.

These decaying utility poles. Their electricity cut years prior like a pair of tonsils or appendix; and somehow, did not fail to spark a connection between us.

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