Today I ran against the wind, swirling amber bits of confetti under foot falls.
The trees here are on fire, burning so bright your eyes burn; your breath catches in that place between the breast bone and laughing and crying feel the same.
My lonely gray heron stood in the river staring into the distance at the same place on the horizon where the flaming trees met the sky; all muddled indigo, cornflower, clouds of blue.

We are so small here, our footprint so faint in the scheme; all of our melodrama plays like a circus of fleas.