rejectomorph | Longer Each Night

When the thin crescent moon rises late, it is a night for stars. Early Autumn's clarity reveals velvet indigo, dusted by the milky way, a pale river flowing between the brighter stars that glitter along its shores. Pines are singing with cool wind, accompanied by the rattling rhythm of drying oak leaves and clattering acorns dancing down roofs.

There was a moment when I saw a single bright star in the southeast intermittently obscured by the windblown branches of a ponderosa. Perhaps the trembling pine needles acted as a prism, for the star was flashing different colors; blue, red, green, yellow. Slowly, it followed Orion's heel up the sky until, emerging from behind the tree, it returned to its normal blue.

No deer visited the street tonight, probably because on their visit last night, they stripped the last of the most recent crop of pansies from the plants. The sybaritic ungulates will return when more flowers blossom, I'm sure. In the meantime, I have the Autumn nights to myself, with only Orion on his hunt above to keep me company. I like being alone in the night. I like the night. I like Autumn.