I travel the winding road
The thick air refreshes my lungs
With its soothing brush against my skin
The fifty degree atmosphere matches my mood
I feel at home
I happen upon a leaf.
More appear as I pan my vision
Floating along the air, static while weaving through the oxygen
The crinkle and crunch between my foot and the solid ground
These are the products of the equinox.
They originated from the labyrinth of branches
Yearning to hang on.
But they have rusted beneath me.
We are home.