from the windows, a mottled sky, pink & blue, wraps across the western hills of the valley. tararuas draped in clustering dark white fogthrow, and my heart ticks down hours, a handful of round dozens, not even that.
the streetlamps flicker up, a little glistening roll of sparks, sweet, all at once, and coat riverstone and the valley floor and, of course, tugs at strings. but i haven't said anythin', just yet.
as typical, will just disappear; as a daydream evaporates, come autumn.