The first winds of autumn rustle the leaves of the trees

and find their way under the linens of my shirt

to raise the hairs on my chest.

A spider, who has made its home between a pillar

and a fern, wafts to the uneven rhythm of the gentle breeze.

White stains still dot the brick path.

Stains from the last decade of bird droppings which will likely never come off,

and that thorny bush plant by the side of the road

has once again spilled out of its plot

to cover an irritatingly wide portion of the exposed brick.

The tree sports scratches to its trunk that were not there last week,

perhaps from the neighbor's kids climbing around -

but the lines are too precise for that to be the case,

golden brown streaks of hardened sap

glistening underneath the sunlight.

One of the pink flowers underneath it has lost a petal.

In the distance is the faint buzzing of a bee, a lawnmower.

The skin on my hands have begun to dry and crack.