Melancholy whispers through the dry grass of autumn, murmuring soft, almost inaudible remembrances of the summer past. A jay, far away, scolds the world, its penetrating rawk, rawk bouncing down the hillside. Cars on the distant highway provide rhythm for the quick jazz riff of a hidden sparrow’s song.

A breeze shuffles up the hill carrying on its back the first chill hint of coming winter. Dead leaves rattle across the soil, the sound as crinkled and brown as the leaves themselves.

As the sun finishes its rust colored descent towards the western mountains, the first cricket of the evening echos its chirping name. Criiiiicket, criiiiicket. A friend answers, then another and the late afternoon’s peace gives way to a cocktail party of insect talk.

I rise to race the darkness to my car. The rhythmic scrunch of my running shoes on the trail thump out the beat my descent.