The forest looks painted with dabs of bright color, a pointillist mural of the leaves' last hurrah. Soon, it'll turn twiggy, and sing desolation, and invite the fog in to soften sharp lines. Then one day you'll notice leaves glowing in sunlight. Their green will be golden from warm yellow rays. The maturing forest will darken its greenness, turning to sober tones that blot out the light.
It rains for days on end in this city. The people peer out under umbrellas. Nothing 's washed clean; it's soggy & gritty and brutal as a Kafka novella. The streets aren't light, but nor are they true dark. The light isn't absent, just sapped of vim. The gray that remains is like Fall in Denmark. Relentless rain is relentlessly grim. The gutters are glutted with murk and sludge. The rushing waters can't sweep it all clean. All work 's drudgery and all walks a trudge, and there's no sparkle in the pavement sheen. Do some "sing in the rain?" No, they just mock -- their umbrella flipped out and w/ sodden socks.
Rivers merge. Trees may fork, but rivers merge. True, sometimes rivers split to form an island, and when they near the sea they may branch out like the roots of a tree. How the river knows it's near the sea is unclear to me, but it is the river's nature. As is the tendency of rivers to merge toward unity of flow. But what is my nature?
the moth is still.
is it alive or dead?
how patient am i?
one dandelion stands alone at field's edge; where are its friends?
the cattail sways with a unique rhythm, but - now - is still
the day is cold, but the sun is out, and the water sparkles
a great wall stands between a cricket and the food it seeks
some find Christmas mind in "It's a Wonderful Life" i, through holly berries
Tiger Riding for Beginners 