That Time

You know. There's getting to be a bite in the air ("a tad nippy," says M--) that makes you wish you'd remembered your scarf. On some days the sky is bright and hard and the blue is clear and strange, because it seems to belong to another time, and beautiful because it seems to be an echo of that other time.

Most days, now, it is flat and grey. When it rains, there are puddles and mud and colourful rain-boots and umbrellas, and people crowd around doors and entryways muttering to each other about the miserable weather. The leaves are starting to turn too, scarlet and vermilion and saffron, and when the wind and rain die down the sidewalk is plastered with bright little cutouts.

Hey. I know what's said about good content not needing to be begged for attention, but I'm begging. I ranted last week and I need it to be read. Please. Sorry. Thanks.