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rejectomorphArmistice Day has donned a grey sackcloth overcast, and is filling the fireplaces with ashes. Smoke drifts among yellowing leaves and scents the chilly air. Most of the birds appear to have bedded down for the night already, lending late afternoon an eerie stillness. Nothing is moving outside but the smoke, and an occasional leaf that falls and joins the thickening carpet that will soon cover the lawns.
I can hear cars occasionally passing along the through road nearby, but they seem to be part of some other world, where people have places to go and things to do. This block seems cut off from the outside, as though invisible, already swallowed by the approaching night, already asleep. My window shows me so dismal a scene that I close the drapes. Better to watch the lively pot boiling on the stove than this comatose street.
I can hear cars occasionally passing along the through road nearby, but they seem to be part of some other world, where people have places to go and things to do. This block seems cut off from the outside, as though invisible, already swallowed by the approaching night, already asleep. My window shows me so dismal a scene that I close the drapes. Better to watch the lively pot boiling on the stove than this comatose street.
