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.