The Empty Air

[rejectomorph]

The night air has ceased to smell of anything but cold. No trees, no decaying leaves, no grass, no damp scents it. The cold has destroyed every fragrant emanation. There is only the air itself, sharp, heavy, and clear. The stars are sharper, too, now that the moon has waned a bit. There have been stiff breezes all night, lasting several minutes at a time. I hear them approach, as the pines begin to whisper, and then there is an onrushing sound, as from a conch shell, and the rattling scuttle of desiccated leaves tumbling along the cold pavement. A bird disturbed from its sleep flutters briefly in a bush, and small whorls of wind send leaves spinning about my feet. Then the wind subsides for a while, and I hear it fade southward, and silence returns to the odorless night.