The pristine blueness
Of the morning sky,
The mystic coolness,
Of the breeze rushing past the rye.
The manifestation of sepia ,
In the leaves of every a tree.
The surge of freshness in the bronchia,
Effected by the winds of sea set free.
Everything suggests it is already fall,
Even the glow of the sun;
But season’s are not known to ignore time’a call
Whether it is winter or autumn or none…