Saturday morning

Stripes painted on the ceiling of the skye
Stripes made of grass
now withered
for winter

A steady breeze from the east
paints lines on the water
making for the west
an anomalous run

The last leaves
heroically clinging
to the bushes
lining the road

We have the best weather
with a reputation for the worst
Quite good for late November
Winter, though, is nigh

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