Mist sitting on the mountains and hills every morning. Through the hazy clouds are the changing leaves, dropping to the ground in farewell. The fallen fruits, calling all the hungry insects with their sweet perfumes of rot. A bed of mycelium is uncovered after ripping out the last of the tomato monster’s roots. A reminder, as I am dressed in all green, that everywhere is life even in the deaths. Closing eyes and sniffing in the comforting scent of— Fall, full of mourning and celebration, I am so thankful with every inhalation.

ailurophile era