I walked my dog last night during a cool, crisp clear night guided by the luminous glow of a "Hunter's Moon" - accompanied by shards of the constellations so brilliant and flawless like diamonds spewed on black velvet.
The most revealing sight was walking the gauntlet of mature maple and oak trees in it's pinnacle of autumnal hues of goldenrod, cranberry and flaming red leaves - a tapestry overhead glowing through the silvery moonbeams giving our solitary walk through nature's cathedral.
As I deeply inhaled the moist, dank dew from the foliage below, I picked up a note of burnt spice and musty wood from a neighbor's smoldering pile of his trivial labor.
As I continue our walk through the streets matted with decomposed boreal matter, a swirling gust carves a clear path parting a sea of dead leaves like Moses in the ten commandments. I suddenly stopped and held back the leash preventing my dog from further pursuit of thousands of liberated fallen florals, as I hear a droning, clipping sounds from a distant. It sounded like little children hollering in one monotonous pitch. The sound becomes more apparent that a flock of geese peppering the soft moonlight cobalt sky, honking like a band of novice clarinets make their way overhead towards their long arduous journey.
I stood still until the famous "V" formation of beeping fowl became a faded flat line in the dark sodium light.
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