Autumn
By reneeJ
Slow moves the scarlet lamp of day over the rusty mounds, slow from the furied orange of trees leaves whisper to the ground. Like dying fire the night creeps in, taking the hillsides under cloak; the burnished sun is hiding there behind the purple slopes. A swallow twitters at the dark - a chill remembered from somewhere and lifts his limber wings to fly upon the twilight air. The dog, asleep against the house, stirs and stretches his head to know the frosty wind blown from the north - a harbinger of snow. Each bird and beast, each farm and town sips the bottom of autumn's glass, a burgandied champagne of life - that cannot last. Written September 28th, 2001 © on Sep 28 2001 08:16 AM PST 10 • 0 • 1
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"Slow moves the scarlet lamp of day..."