Boot Songs.

It begins with shoes.
The soft squeak of leather on wet pavement,
a rhythm stitched from drizzle and decision.
Sneakers retire to closets
and boots take their solemn post by the door.

The air smells faintly metallic,
like the edge of a coin,
and the street hums with early surrender,
tires sighing, puddles whispering,
leaves giving up their last applause.

Each step tells the story,
water darkening suede,
heels finding their careful balance
on the glassy promise of cold.
Even the ground has learned to listen.

The boots are not beautiful,
only faithful.
They keep warmth where warmth belongs,
they say we are past pretending
that autumn will last.

In their steady rhythm
I hear the season closing its throat,
a hush before the world begins again,
the sound of first frost
spoken softly from the soles of our feet.