The sky’s shoulders were bruised and blood-stained this morning from night’s heavy fall. Ominous beauty warning shepherds to keep a close eye on the vulnerable members of their flocks.
Now, at ten, a grey-white shroud envelopes autumn’s corpse, burial imminent. The drum of approaching Solstice beats ever louder.
The hare is watchful, tense, ready to play or flee.
So am I.