on days where the sun sinks quietly into submission and allows the moon to conquer the sky, the trees revel in the dull yellow defeat as and the horizon waves a colorless flag or a nod to the sun and the lonely sunset. over the pond , life will cease until morning and spirits will dance among the trees, cold. ∆¨®ˆ˚∂ßπ until the battle returns and the sun takes over with it's dull brilliance. the tears from the oh so lonely ghosts will turn to dust until the strength returns. this is the cycle