A Decision Of Leaves

…the sun was going home, going down, he needed room to dream too, it’s not easy lighting and heating the earth all day, the day seemed short, but where did it go now that it was autumn, and speaking of autumn Bob saw yellow and mahogany and pale green, and it was an evening that craved a hot cup of coffee to go with the tears and the string music playing in the wings, and the wings of the cross, the cross of the dollar introduced as a plunking string, and city dogs were on leashes even though they wished they were not, and that city dog must have barked, barked as the hound who just moved to the block and bayed every evening at some point during his walk, bayed at dogs in houses or cars or squirrels that were treed, but Bob didn’t see the pugs as often as he used to when he was living on a lower floor, maybe because they were built lower to the ground, lower than the twigs of Friday evening the fourth of November when all there was to do was work, when sweetness had lost its taste, when the drugs were all used and abused and coffee was not worth the acceleration, time for a yawn and a decision, an autumn decision, a decision of leaves, a decision of the squirrel Bob watched crawling up the

… another pop can smoking device crafted by Stan while reclining in Rogers Field before hiking back in the dark down the mountain …

side of the four-story brick condo next door, crawling with a huge red leaf in his mouth, and boy that made a nice winter bed, more comfortable than Bob’s queen size and cotton sheets, crawling up in the attic and living on leaves, taking and breaking the season into winter, the coming of an Indian summer weekend and a walk along the Blackhawk with Mom, where they used to ride their bikes on the path when Bob was young, but not as young as the Civil War fiddle, the bona fide fiddle, and an autumn in the Bluetops with Bibb and Stan, breaking dawn in the Miasma, having finished their twelve-pack before they even crossed the Georgia state line, and having the next eight hours of driving in the dark through the night, breaking dawn in the mountains and the laughing mountain air, the freshness of the wilderness, and another pop can smoking device crafted by Stan while reclining in Rogers Field before hiking back in the dark down the mountain, to the campsite that was raided by raccoons and other creatures of the night which is how they lost their powdered donuts and ended up breakfasting on hardtack and brandy before the drive back down the other side of the mountain through Tennessee and Copahagua, under autumn leaves as comfortable as a house cat hidden under a blanket…

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