Book of mirrors

Dappled yellow leaves on the ground and rainwater gathered on trash can lids pooling in the creases. Back to wearing socks and donning my old sweater, funny things in pockets from forgotten times. Robins tugging worms from the scruffy rise outside our den, the grass the color of the Scottish Highlands, parched golden-brown. A tarp over the tractor and a hole in the ground filled with yard waste. The last weekend of summer doesn’t feel much like summer, it feels decidedly fall.

Night passes slowly into morning and the cat sits on the windowsill watching, herself a dark figure coming in or going out. The tapping of some drip off the gutter’s seam is like time’s metronome slow at first, then hastening. There is so much I will never know. Shooting stars, is all.



Categories: microblogging, prose, writing

Tags: , , , ,

10 replies

  1. way beyond us, all we can do is try to take it in

    Liked by 1 person

  2. Brilliant piece, Bill. You lends the description a rich visual appeal. Guess, window sill is the cat’s happy space.

    Liked by 1 person

  3. Captures the whole feeling of summer seeping into fall. Beautiful wordsmithing- again

    Liked by 1 person

  4. It sounds like you a wrapping the melancholy shawl of fall around your shoulders anticipating a harsh winter to come.

    Liked by 1 person

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