September trees rattle like down turned paper cups.
Golden lampshade softens tones of green and grey but heightens hues of crimson berries and the rolling waves of fallowed hay.
Birdsong scatters and slowly fades into insignificant outbursts of random chatter and sweet lullaby.
And sudden foggy mornings bruise my lengthened view and wet each and everyone of nature’s garden pleasantries.
The Summer tide is turning and the harvest moon sprinkles it’s amber mischief and fills my palette with shades of sultry rust.
My Autumn is very near.
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