Here, there are red and green trees. They are on fire, simmering, readying for winter.
There are small streets with older homes. Two-stories with attics. A hundred year old oak stands in the yard. Neighbors cut through the yard to get to the sidewalk.
A man rides through the Village Mall parking lot on his high-powered commercial riding mower at three miles per hour, smiling with ear protectors.
Canadian geese honk by on early October mornings. In a straight line they fly with one straggler attempting to right himself.
A flock of birds fly over the grape vineyard. The sky blackens and swells with additions and some become hypnotized by patterns they weave. Some break away, as if the gravity of the mass of them has let up just a bit, releasing just for a moment. Others are drawn in. Becoming part of this shape-changing thing; pulsing, moving this way and that. An oval with a tail. A pollywog. Fluttering, then an arc is created and the sky takes a breath, holds it and suddenly upon exhale the arc is flowing down, down into another shape.