the leaves are starting to turn. the sun low on the horizon too early in the evening. groves of trees every where have died from the drought. their brittle limbs reaching out to the full moon for the last season before the armies of chain saws and log splitters come to take them to their graves.
every now and again, i hear a high school band cutting through the forest and night air. it makes me long to go to a place that is hermitically sealed off by time. i am but a lone visitor walking through the museum diplay of my mind. i can look at those things, but not touch.
step, step, step upon the tile floor.
i look to the skies. i am still wishing for rain. the bankroll is thin, but the weather is free. at night , deep into sleep i dream fragmets into the darkness. grab them throughout the day and try to assemble the jig saw puzzle.