Go out, day or night, find them, kiss them. They stand tall, as if sleeping. The orange brown of chemicals lives here. An ache that has no mouth or hands. The possibility of snow hangs in the birches, whispering to fading leaves just beginning to clutter the ground.
Snow comes early, sifts into slender arms of birches bowing lower and lower under the white weight.
Moose dredge trails among the trees. Leaves, still clinging, are released by the cold. They flutter down with more snow, fill the sculpted tracks with amber light. Cold is upon us. In the boreal forest all fallen leaves are one shape and lie scattered like a dream of money upon the forest floor.