The moulding wetness of the last few weeks had dried to a fine autumnal haze, a midpoint twixt a fleeting summer and the oncoming hibernatory season. Crispy deadness scrunching through summer's memories as I shuffle off to work.
My internal balance found once more as I shed my own-made obstacles in favour of a freeness of spirit. My last winter fed me sea and salt while summer faded too early. Sun baked warmth leeching from tanned flesh faster than it should.
But naught to fear since the cinnamon call sings persistently in the back brain waiting for opportunity to arrive.
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