Winded

[rejectomorph]

A placid moon and washed-out sky glow above roiling trees and tumbling streams of dessicated leaves. The woodlands dance and chatter, whirlwinds hoist autumn's detritus and dash it against the trees from which it lately fell, pines groan and fling their cones to crash amid the year's flailing wreckage. For hours, the sound of wind continues as the moon passes, and as it settles among the pines to the west, the half-denuded eastern oaks catch its final rays and become like dim clouds of smoke inexplicably unmoved by the turbid air. At last, the sky darkened by the moon's descent reveals scattered stars, and the now-shadowed ground rustles with the invisible skittering leaves. A perfect November night!