Paused

The soft illumination of a white rooftop sectioned by boles of nearer pines is the waxing moon's gift, though the gibbous moon itself is concealed by foliage. The north breeze barely moves, all the ground's coat of dry leaves are left unstirred and silent, but a dog's repeated barks drift by and then vanish, leaving night still. The afternoon had brought the first southern breeze in days, soft, mild, and smelling of the apple trees and of the freshly-turned earth beyond the orchard. Bright sunlight flashed black on the wings of a dozen or more crows who flew cawing into the wind. Soon, there will be flights of migrating geese and ducks and swans. First, though, a warmer week will pass, and more color must come to the trees. Autumn seems as slow as tonight's breeze this year. Meanwhile, I languish with the still leaves.

( Sunday Verse )