Birds fly up

to the unfamiliar branches. The sun
hangs low. Time has revealed itself
and picked leaves, decay - the fruit
of itself, but each time new and

differently. No year is
like another, except in what is
missing, or concealed. Each season is
only itself, and escapes from all

that wears a name. So there is
only this autumn, and that only
for a short time. As the fire
above the burning leaves suddenly

blows out. As the streets are barely wet
after a shower.