Saturday, 5 September 2009

Approach to Bogard, morning.

The poplar leaves are dropping, veined, fluttering, curled, September's golden hearts.

And who would know it, but the woods smell like good soft leather.

A woodpecker stifles a laugh.


Rouchswalwe said...

I'm there.

Bee said...

Dropping already?

This is wonderfully sensual. I'm there, too.