Wayward Rivulets In Autumn Flowing

Night creeps quicker this evenin` than in recent weeks, the ashen New Moon is translucent in the violet sky.

Our household has a deep quietude, its custom always of a LORD`s Day night.

The children are upstairs, playing together in peace, as my beloved naps under the low lamp-light of the Den… thro` the windows, gentle breezes ease into the diaphanous linen curtains.

O, how tranquility abides. Even so, I leave this dulcenescence… for some few errands of needful endeavors.

A goodly rain, of a span of days, bathes the Night in shimmering radiance. Rough cobblestone glimmers and dull concrete shines slickly under the streetlights. Phosphorescent low clouds amble undulating in tones of silver-pink and purple in the dying Western twilight.

Upon horseback, a police office sits high in the saddle `neath a low-slung lamppost. He casts a romantic figure, even as he breathes into a Styrofoam coffee cup, his glorious beast chewing idly. Ill-dressed viatrs lament the weather, with soppy newspapers covering sodden heads. A homeless troubadour, in an ancient Stetson, sings in hound-dog tones: “Come on, come on, and touch me baby…”

I adore the slate gray days of early Autumn. The chill of the early Morn and the briskness of Night`s wind. The good long soak of Atlantean condensation, the Bay winds that take away the hot breath of humid Summer swelter.

Now is come the time of sweaters and woolen caps, of scarves and my fingerless gloves. Ruddy cheeks and runny noses. Snuggling tight against my beloved under heavy quilts. Of harvest fragrance and chimney smoke.

For `tis Autumn in Annapolis, and it`s a wonderful time to be alive.

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