Evanescent frills of wispy sensation accompany a sip of lemonade.
One of those perfect days.
The ones that have an identity crisis confused between summer and fall.
The trees are just freckling with tints of cider drippings, as
I muse from my hammock of twine.
The birds are more timid this time of the year;
they bother me not.
Their fledglings eloped from the roost.
Only cardinals meet to spar over berries,
as they usher in the arrival of The Chill.
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