Crankin', Stinkin', Dead Leaves
Can you ever just hear the Earth crank?
I don’t mean cosmically.
Too big.
I mean, like the gears in my leather-banded watch.
Just tickin’ on like it’s the 11th, even though it’s the 13th.
Two days slow.
Sometimes I can hear it.
It comes in random moments.
Like when I’m runnin’ down the bike lane on 10th St.
It’s August.
It’s hot as hell.
“Georgia is where breezes come to die.”
A professor told me that once.
Anyway—
The bike lane.
The one I shouldn’t be runnin’ in
is filled with dead brown leaves.
The air is cool from the 100th thunderhead of the month.
And I’m just pluggin’ along.
Suddenly—
you catch it.
That scent.
That knowing.
The hot brown leaves are gathered in the gutter.
One crunches into a million pieces beneath my teal shoe.
“Fall is coming.”
The turn is in the air.
The crank grinds.
It’s like that look.
You know the one.
We all give it.
When we’re in the bar,
or the restaurant,
or the street corner,
and eyes meet eyes,
and you grin,
and you know,
and they grin back,
and they know too.
Like when you throw the stick and you can hear the clink before it hits the kubb block.
Or the dart has the feel of bullseye before it flies the hand.
Or the cornhole bag is on the board mid-toss.
Or the ping pong ball sinks the red solo cup before it leaves your fingers—
It’s this feeling.
This knowing.
This fate.
That’s what the Earth does.
She winks.
She cranks.
She says, “hey you.”
And you can feel it.
And—
there’s a peace.
Not that you’re in control.
Not that it’s all gonna be fine—
Maybe it’s just,
that it’ll be.
That you’ll run down the bike lane when it’s cool some hot ass day,
and the smell of the decay of the hot crunchy leaves round the park will give you pause.
The world will change on ya again.
And fast ‘er slow.
You’re changin’ right along with her.