I make no secret that I’ve been pining for fall. The seasons have finally caught up with my wishes–today, I watched a rainstorm roll in over the bay while the sun fought to shine through a little open patch in the clouds. It’s still raining outside and, thankfully, some of the stress of the past few weeks is starting to calm down.

It’s only October and I’m already wearing scarves and jackets and heating up apple cider every afternoon. I’m not at all festive when it comes to Christmas but the moment the weather turns even a bit nippy I pull a Cinderella and become a pumpkin.

I’ll miss my flowers and green grass and the sweet smell of lilacs and roses. But fresh apples and cinnamon and maple make a good substitute, I think.

Anyway, here’s a drabble.

PSITHURISM

(Noun) From Ancient Greek ψίθυρος, for whispering or slanderous

The sound of rustling leaves.

They gather in the graveyard, not because it’s haunted or powerful, but because it’s quiet and private. Their breath hangs in the air, little clouds carrying whispers. It’s half idle gossip and half questions, excitement hushing their voices as they ask, “Do you think it will work?”

It takes some time before they setting into a circle, goosebumps on their arms and nervous giggles escaping their mouths. Someone shushes them and, after some fussing, they settle down and join hands. Their lips move in unison and, in the center of the circle, leaves stir in a breeze nobody can feel.