The trees
lean in.
The last of
the autumn leaves rustle.
Fire clouds
drift
languidly
across the
sky.
You lift
fallen apples,
gather them
in your hands
to gauge
their weight.
They dangle
lazily from your fingers
like small
planets.
You close
your eyes.
Around you,
the ambient hum of suburbia,
families
sighing into dinner,
garages
closing their heavy eyes,
and you
listen like a phantom,
your own
opera unspooling gently.
The air
darkens.
