Trace of footfalls pierce glistening white, tokens of travellers. Bygone origins, trivial destinations. Blinding reflections as icy air sneaks through unseen fissures. Warmth beckons and beauty is abandoned.
In the early morning fog, the formation of geese rises above the Mississippi River taking wing amidst their rhythmic calls of navigation. The wind whispers among the trees. The lush green of the dancing leaves has given way to a pallet of reds, yellows and oranges. In the field, the pumpkin vines are withering as the fruit ripens full and round. On the wall of the garage the anger of the thermometer has been assuaged by the cool breeze. I sit at my desk, glancing at the calendar in a moment of confusion. August 21?