Chill Still

The stillness of this night is such that the sound of a single falling leaf striking another leaf echoes through the cold air, and an acorn hitting a rooftop cracks like a rifle report. Clouds are again concealing the stars. Orion is up there, somewhere, draped in a gray shroud. How like midwinter it feels tonight! In a narrow shaft of light that escapes a window shade, I see my breath's fog drift and vanish into surrounding dark. It will settle later, dew on the sharp needles of the solemn pines which I sense as much as see, aspiring to the slightly less dark sky. Dawn will arrive in a while, but I, huddled under covers, shall not see it. Now is time for sleep.

( But first, a bit of Sunday verse... )

Wet

The general gloom of the day brought me pleasure. I have missed the gray and dripping skies. The intermittent rain allows me times to go out and tread on mushy leaves which make a satisfying squish underfoot. For a while in the evening, the moon poked through the clouds, but now they have regrouped, and the slow rain is falling again. It will probably make music all night. Sluggo hums along, kept happy by the chill draft sliding down the walls. Now I can grow nostalgic for the sweltering summer, safely buried.