Nothing is wrong this morning, in the same way, missing children smile on junk mail next to their older, simulated selves that ask, “Have you seen me?” I drop them in the recycling bin on my way out the door. A distant tornado siren is misplaced with no signs of severe weather. It must be a test of the emergency broadcast system. Somewhere a storm is brewing.

Like staking a sundial gnomon into the ground to capture and release the passing hours, I walk this path every morning to keep the days from expiring anonymously. I want to observe the trees transitioning between seasons as autumn signals its arrival in vivid golds, lush reds, and darkening days. Staring upwards, I often appear in conversation with a deity or an apparition which has been appropriate considering my casual state of wonder that even a mundane morning stroll elicits on a paved trail that I could navigate blindfolded.

Leaves swaying look like fire waving as if trying to convey a voiceless message, maybe a warning or a farewell. We aren’t listening. It leaves me wondering how many autumns we have left because lately, it feels like I’m strolling through a long goodbye. Brown, crisp grass crunches underfoot as I picture uncontainable wildfires out west that will burn everywhere eventually. The small stream is now a dry scar with overgrown brush and dead branches. Easy to miss if you don’t explore this path every morning. Walking this trail and observing these occurrences is starting to feel like stroking the matted fur of a sick cat that will be put to sleep in the coming hours.

…

Joseph Kerschbaum’s most recent publications include Midnight Sunrise (Main Street Rag Press, 2024), Mirror Box (Main St Rag Press, 2020), and Distant Shores of a Split Second (Louisiana Literature Press, 2018). His recent work has appeared in Reunion: The Dallas Review, Hamilton Stone Review, The Inflectionist Review, and Main Street Rag. Joseph lives in Bloomington, Indiana with his family.