The first of November presents itself in a warm rain. The sky is moving - wispy clouds reflecting the sun in different shades of bluish grey. Hints of blue can only peek through momentarily as a dark cloud moves in front, becoming illuminated at it's edges. The fog has lifted and now, the valley is visible. Against the splotchy horizon, the hills are ablaze in vivid yellows, fire oranges and crisp, bright reds. Between the hills and mountains lay low-lying clouds, the collection of steam from the rivers and creeks that constant through these ancient ruins. The birds are singing, relishing the warm rain - holding on, so to speak, to the very last bit of warmth as long as they can, much like me.
oh, if only I could just fly away from winter, like the birds
I had to remember this day and didn't have a camera to capture the magnificence, so I had to jot it down really quick, even though I don't think even a picture would have done it justice