Seasons in the mist

The last days, where we live inside our seasons success and failure, if we could live here forever. As the chime that dances on the warm morning breeze plays his tiny, lazy song, warm fat dogs dreaming in the steaming weeds are woken by the restless call of wolves... who wish only to run in the fallen bracken. Time quickens her step. The dancing chime sings now a song of cool impatience. Smooth white rays wash now the sticky golden beams of summer. Now. Things look different, closer, less familiar... the Sun rises. Like an approaching stranger we mistook for an eternal friend.