Somewhere, on a lonely street, a perfect line of elms keep the company of a roadway whose intent is long forgotten. It is Autumn here, and in the heart of the trees, who sway and guard and guide, and are rich red in deference to the wind that yawns for them now and calls them to slumber.
It is Autumn, but it is Man's winter, and the mortal remains of Man are but one. He sits here, among the trees, in a chair on a porch of a house on a street that can't remember its name.
The wind blows and the trees rock, and the man rocks, and the rocks clamour for more sun to warm their faces. But they'll have to wait... For the sun is slipping away into the horizon's vest pocket, and the touch of her hands won't be felt before a long morning has passed.
Breezes blow the leaves from the trees like a sigh, and they rise and they fall like the chest of the man who sits and looks on with reprieve as he wheezes and coughs at the sky through a hole in his fist.
Fairly soon the chill will ride in, like a white horse through the night at a gallop. And a man with chilled hands will rise and reach for a door. Inside, it's time, to take solace and warm by the fire.