between seasons

The fence is painted in shadows, the deadfall tangle and the smoky overtures. There are sky blues and white clouds and the usual procession of crows. I drink coffee, smoke a cheap cigar just for the flavor of the burning. The smoke curls away, finds the wind, rises through the tattered trees. It is another measure of the atmosphere, here where summer has all but burned itself out.

I lean back, down here in the dust and detritus, the pine needle carpet with the dogs hard at work. The heavens have no hold on me, the earth no need. The day dawdles as the shadows stretch and claim. I take a sip of coffee, a slow drag on the cigar. Idle amid this stir of habit and affectation. Idle amid the gears and teeth of time leaving its mark.

All the names I have forgotten, all the roads that lost my cause. The sky is portioned out between tree limbs, flecks of gray ash litter the dusty ground. I stretch out and watch the whole of the world, passing by and static and always changing. I linger where my limits no longer matter, free to be at fault or loose ends. Beneath the trees, between the seasons. Memories scattered to the wind, curling away like that taste of savored smoke.