Fall Night

Fall nights have no excuse for prettiness. Above them a blue moon should be putting on its make-up, below them the leaves should be ready for their close-up. Branches shouldn't just appear to be gnarled fingers scraping the sky; they should really put their whole trunk into it, convince us that black cats and witches would find their trees a nice home. The drama coaches, the wolves, must howl so loudly we jump in our seats, and the pumpkins have to carve their own faces into scary masks, like mom and dad. These evenings should terrify us, so we run into the nearest chuch and splash holy water on our faces, chew garlic until we throw up, wear a cross as we cross the graveyard, hoping nobody dead is cross with us and we don't see dirt thrown up from their plots, their characters rising to close the books on our lives.