Autumn, that jolly arsonist, has set fire to the leaves at last. The red and orange flames flicker in the treetops above the resistant bushes. It is a slow-burning flame, but in the end each branch will be bare, the foot of each tree littered with the brown ashes of the summer.
The back porch knows nothing of the colorful drama unfolding before it. The cement is cool, rough, mottled by pounding rain and creeping algae. The black iron railing is stalwart, unmoving against a backdrop of riotous green. The sun has burst forth, joining in the attempt to set alight everything it can reach. Even trees which Autumn has not yet touched are caught by the sun-flames. The porch is impassive, sleeping in cool shadow, the blue sky bouncing off the shiny black railings.
"The flames cannot touch me," it thinks sleepily. "I have no leaves to set afire. I dwell on the lee side of a large house. I am safe."
The sun burns its way ever closer.
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Mehh. This is supposed to be longer, but I feel like that's an appropriate ending. Is that lazy of me?
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