Most of the etchings were solid colors.
Some roofs still damp,
From the over excited rainfall.
A cup,
That spilled from heaven's table.

The afternoon light was frosty.
A cold, glare snuggling under layers of little nothings.

Life was this way.
The smolderings of landscapes & relations.

The irreplaceable differentness,
Woven to merge,
With separate features.

Like a squirrel,
Who is born learning to not get caught.

The afternoon was nearly a snowy fog.
My exhale,
Made a frozen ghost, in the wind.
Slowly creeping away.

November was here,
Sooner then time could make it.