Under a shadowy sunlight, I'm reading Anne Radge in French, the second volume of her "Neshov" series. This morning, the downhill park close to my apartment shows its first scattering of color which will eventually fade into mulch. Crows caw as they take wing, a possible protest to the Sunday morning passers-by. Daylight savings made its mark on circadian rhythms last night. My reading still distracted, a group of twenty or so retirement-age tourists unpack their early lunches and squeeze themselves onto the eight benches close to my favorite one a few meters away. This is where a stately ginkgo's stump has pushed out new branches. I don't know why it was felled, but I'm glad the stump has flourished this year. My bench has new orange graffiti that resembles ascemic writing. I see it as a Fauré-like hymn to the recent full moon. I plunge back into my book, tourist chatter now white noise. On my return home I will have my food when the clock's normal chime invites me. My pantry shelves have a few remaining offerings to tantalize my tastebuds. I must also remember to buy heather for the window sills at the open-air market early tomorrow morning before the crowds make the aisles difficult to navigate.
a Bach fugue
untangles my mind . . .
early sunset