Another slow-roll of day, bouncing over opened ground, planting seed in wake; trees more naked than day before and so they’d be until restoring of the spring. Amidst the rote and steady movement, he gave his I’d to dreaming—stories imagined, near to scene, but changed of intent and details; a romance that is found in the countryside in fall, when allowed to slow and live the senses: sight and sound and scent, tastes and feels. All of it was there, for brevity of a moment, eight days’ time of peak—he’d read or seen—forgetting where it’d been.
Had the eight days been? Were they still in live? He didn’t know, but the trees were less; and that was something of a sign.
There was always a wonder, always an awe, and he hated to see it end—the autumn romance, height of eight days’ time.