Autumn is a second Spring, when every leaf is a flower.
- Albert Camus
I am sitting on a bench overlooking a small duck pond, which is currently divested of its few waddling inhabitants, as it is late afternoon and they know by habit that if they wander over to a certain house in the neighborhood about this time they are ensured a hearty dinner. This sun in bright and mellow, "the maturing sun," Keats called it, and that seems to describe it perfectly today, it is not exuberant, but constant. Above me is a canopy of brilliant orange, made even more intense by the sunlight, and just across the street is a row a gold.
As long as autumn lasts, I shall not have hands, canvas, and colors
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