morning

The sky is dark and the digital clock in Harvard Square tells me there’s still a quarter to go until six. The roads are empty and a few people, those last, barely, and first awake walk down the sidewalk. Pairs huddle together. Two older women hold hands.

My long underwear scratches my legs for the first time since winter gave way to spring in April. The first cold morning has settled on Camberville, bringing with it frost clinging to fallen leaves and clear sunrises.

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katsura

“When I was biking down, I went past the katsura and was like ‘yeah, fall’s coming.'”

“They’re changing color?”

“No, they smells like fall.”

Katsura tees smell like fall, a dark smell of honey, cinnamon, and dust. As their leaves prepare to die, they produce an excess of maltose in one last push. It catches on the air and carries down wind, following me down the path.