Walking the Woods at Picklegate Crossing On the far side of Picklegate Crossing is an abandoned farm-and-woodswhere the last frogs of the season mount a series of root-steps, tree fingers squeezing their drink from soil. My son chunks off the burial shrouds of dead oaks we pass, their bits scattered at the base, like the sloughed-off throat skin of forest dragons. Dried leaves windskitter across our path like summer crabs. Plum-bombs drop, roll across the pine needles at our feet. Shades of ketchup, mustard, relish: these woods from top to bottom. It is October and so much time is running out. We pass crows on stone walls, crows over corn-stubble. They pick through the dirt for gleanings. A distant harvester reaps, casting dried corn in one direction, flayed stalks in another. My son, his hair as dark as roasted winter wheat, still walks with me and I know this cannot last forever. I smell the end of our evening path: fallen apples, melting into vinegar in the grass. First frost tonight, they say.