A November sky: eggshell blue and tossed by the wind. Oak leaves dance brownly to the ground.
The sun never seems to reach its zenith in the darkening time. Even at noon, it’s westering — always at a tilt over the horizon, blinding the eyes, painting the pavement in long shadows. The half-full moon waltzes into the blue, unafraid of the zenith that Grian shies from.
Breathe in the wet scent of earth, the dry leaves, the bright sky. Accept the gift that is given.