FULL ROUND OF SEASONS
A foggy morn
The minutes past
Then Winter’s born
Tens of thousands of insects performed a symphony, an elaborate musical composition passionately orchestrated, resonating, familiar and strange, persisting, unwavering notes upon notes – the last hurrah – as I strolled along the cooly illuminated cement walk, to view, in an early evening wan indigo sky, the golden orb of a Harvest Moon. Pale purply hued shadows decorated the reflecting surface of the blonde satellite presenting the appearance of a face: still, mute, suspended, shedding an ochre glow, casting mine moon shadow: casting a shadow for all, for all mindful of the rare reverie.
It was a lovely keen autumn evening for for a bottle, er… glass of red wine and cinema – mine was a Velvet Crush Pinot Noir, rich, expansive black cherry with hints of baking spice and a smooth lingering finish while viewing the third episode of the first season of Foyle’s War, “A Lesson in Murder”. Salude!
A silver-gray balmy breezy day. The winds are gusting to twenty-six miles per hour and the temperature is hovering warmly in the seventies. With rain threatening, the bleached white walks are already stained pink from moisture. The wood and it’s canopy of chartreuse, ochre, burnt orange and scarlet foliage are whipping, bending to and fro in an energetic Watusi of a dance. The leaves, rustling a louder song, sing interrupting the softer frenetic chorus of crickets and remaining insects chirping the last symphony for the season, the last hurrah.