crushed cherries all across the pavement and the dying light of shortened day
yellow grass and burning sun over its shoulder summer saw weather cones filled with chill.
The conversations we had under the fig tree linger in the heat.
The air is fresher on the top of a pine tree. Its branches shed sunlight.
In the morning chill muted crisp of fallen leaves. Dawn peeps through the trees.
Skies of pale grey. Wind raises the tablecloth. Rain in my champagne.