There are small miracles hidden in the mist, growing things too fragile to be nourished by rain, living things that pull life from the gray.
Bears in the forest forage for winter, fur slicked and shining in the dampening day. They gorge on acorns among the white oak, their rooting grunts muted joy.
I hear mountains singing as the bleak season nears. Your eyes tell me fall sorrow is nothing more than a time when other things grow.