A single synth oscillates with the last wind of autumn, and a yellow leaf weaves through the air like a bright smash of piano keys. Out here in the fields, there’s no cell service, so my calls to you about what’s for dinner are answered only by helicopter seeds at my feet. All these trees’ colors have been rocked like socks after Sunday service. If only you could see them with me. Before we get much older, let me call you my country girl, let me say it out loud though you’re not here and make myself laugh, electric fuzz curling the hairs on my belly into the threads of my heirloom sweater. On my drive home, I take a trip with God— just Him, me and the trees wasting away at the edge of winter. The familiarity of you waiting for me with a warm kiss— so many times we thought the other would die— is a never-ending violin solo tacked on to our song’s end.