Lowly. The floating disc is buffeted from erstwhile virtues, At the whims of wind and grip deprived footwear. Slowly. We turn, or quickly fall and try, oh, We try and try. Week, on week And year on ye
Chill falls for the Maine coast. Orange leaves, pumpkin, and disc. Perhaps the grass expanse this afternoon Will host a game to five or seven… but not six.
Now – Shadows edge out, tentatively. Out, towards trees touched by Longer nights and autumn’s caress. Yet – Warmth. And, lots of it, sits in Air between our moves under Cumulus cloud