Crisp

A single snowflake floats down onto my tongue. My feet are numb from waiting so long for my transport. It is long past Thanksgiving, and yet there is no blanket cover of white muffling the sounds of movement of everything on earth.

One lone chirping is heard from the lowly maple tree near my stop – a solitary lingerer desperately trying to hold back the cold, unforgiving night. There has long since passed the sound of crunching leaves under wandering feet; now there are only barren branches and the hum of cars headed who-knows-where down the road.

A sudden gust of wind whips my hair into my eyes. I shiver, pulling my coat closer to my form. One word springs into my mind, evoking images and memories that fly past me in quick succession.

A new sheet of white paper.

The crunch of a perfectly ripe apple.

The bite of the wind against me.

The crack of opening a soda can.

The taste of fresh cider.

Citrus.

Pumpkins and hay bales.

 

Crisp.