Autumn Dogs

Fall equinox has passed and the tilt of the earth is now beginning to move away from the face of the sun.
The trees have noticed and started to shed; red and yellow leaves are plastered to the asphalt and pavement.
A dappled mournful beauty beneath us and a thinning canopy above us. 

Dying into winter can still be beautiful.
 
The morning dawns later and the night curtains earlier. This will continue until just before Christmas when we swing a quarter turn more on our orbit.
Temperatures are cooler and rain on the tin roof sounds like a distant applause.
The dog walks that bracket my days are now in wet darkness. We move like limp ghosts between pools of streetlights, at least one of us smelling of wet dog. He thinks that it’s me.
 
Once home we will drip in the sunless front sunroom and partially dry the weather off us.
His bed on the floor will hold the comforting scent of a warm wet dog.
 
And I will shed until I stand naked to lean and turn under a hot shower, glistening in artificial light. 

The autumn of my life can still be beautiful too.