rejectomorph | Pleasant Days

Everything smells fresh after the first big rain of the season. In the orchards, the apples are turning red, and the green of the oaks has reached that dusty shade which indicates that they, too, will soon show patches of red. But the air is still warm, and the younger men are still shirtless as they drive their trucks along the narrow streets, dappled with shade. Squirrels are as yet in no haste as they gather acorns, and birds peck in the lawns at their leisure. The town is poised in that quiet and vaguely pensive time at the edge of Autumn. I watch the evening settle, time and myself dreaming together.