Death at Winter's Dawn — Peter Menadue

A late October breeze blew quietly in from the west, rustling the leaves of the turning trees. Early morning darkness was made darker by a heavy fog as it settled down upon the town, blinding whoever attempted to peer into its depths. I tried my hardest as I moved slowly along the sidewalk, feeling the unevenness of the blocks that had, overtime, given way the to the earths forces and pushed them from their home by large tree roots and distorted their appearance, tilting them this way and that. Water gathered on the branches of the trees until they grew too heavy to hang on and plummet to the ground making a ticking sound that fills the air. Orange, Red, Yellow, and Brown leaves are