rejectomorph (flying_blind) wrote,
rejectomorph
flying_blind

Chilled

The crescent moon grins through the bones of the walnut tree. Night becomes hours of cold and clarity. Nearing nakedness, the oaks expose a greater expanse of stars. The season has become its proper self, mere weeks from solstice. Now, mild days will be rare, and mild nights unknown. Time to dig out more blankets.
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