On Dead Things

This is the season of dead things. Even the wasps and flies are thin on the ground by now.

The world dies in stages in autumn. As one thing falls, an economy of predators arises to slurp down every last unpeeled protein, until those things bore through their resources and die. We're almost at the very end of the cycle, when everything is consumed and every limb is bare. This is the best time of the year, that pivot between decay and nothingness. It lasts a week at most, but sometimes the drama plays out in an afternoon, and by the time you leave work the sun is dropping and the world has turned over. It's winter and you never saw it happen. Oh well. Next year.