Walking the Woods at Picklegate Crossing by Laura Lovic-Lindsay

On the far side of Picklegate Crossing is an abandoned farm-and-woods

where the last frogs of the season mount a series of root-steps, tree fingers

squeezing their drink from soil. My son chunks off the burial shrouds of dead 

oaks we pass, their bits scattered at the base, like the sloughed-off throat skin

of forest dragons. Dried leaves windskitter across our path like summer crabs.

Plum-bombs drop, roll across the pine needles at our feet. Shades of ketchup,

mustard, relish: these woods from top to bottom. It is October and so much time 

is running out. We pass crows on stone walls, crows over corn-stubble. They pick

through the dirt for gleanings. A distant harvester reaps, casting dried corn in one

direction, flayed stalks in another. My son, his hair as dark as roasted winter wheat,

still walks with me and I know this cannot last forever. I smell the end of our evening

path: fallen apples, melting into vinegar in the grass. First frost tonight, they say.  

END

Laura Lovic-Lindsay lives on an enchanted patch of fae land, complete with firepit around which she freely sings and dances. It is possible mead will be served if you stop over. But don't wear pink. The faeries hate pink.