It’s a start, one night called autumn. One moment called, one after moment sent night. Somewhere in between, some time in the settling of each word and other words. The autumn in the current sky reveals dark open field or orange sentence leaves. Feels great and fine, even after the sun finds clouds. Night varies day and we have to adjust. Even the trees know, and their words are colour. All leaves add colour to colour, reclining in colour. Soundly beating heart, or no longer. This is just the time.
poems, fireflies...