While Barred Clouds Bloom, the Small Gnats Mourn

It’s more red in the gold
On the leaves past the blinds,
Then the tang of burnt grass

When we step out the door.
We see the new smoke last,
Which is as it should be—

Cause, like all myths, can come
From a look back, and no
Means else. Cause is a tale.

This is is not a sweet fall,
Not yet, not at the start,
And could be it won’t be.

We go back in the house,
Bring in the cat as well.
What the hell was that smell?