The span of a cup

Steam drifts upward, vanishing into the dim light. Outside, leaves scrape the pavement, red, gold, and already brittle. their edges curling like old paper. I hold the mug close, its heat slowing me down, quieting the noise that usually fills the room. Somewhere, a branch cracks, a dog barks at nothing, and the wind carries the smell of woodsmoke, of apples going soft in the grass. The tea is sharp, then sweet. like the season itself, a reminder that everything is slipping, but beautifully. For a while, I don’t scroll, don’t answer. just sip, and watch autumn undo the trees.