Floating...
     Still floating...
     Lost in the last spring days of November....

     Frost-drunk bumblebees enjoy one last pollen high in still-oddly-towering, pink-petaled hollyhocks...
     One last sumptuous meal before an execution by freezing which no mere governor can stay.....

     Leaves on the grass, their rustling stunned out of them by the sudden reappearance of an August past, wanly wave and slowly crumble in the knowledge that they sold their tree stock just before a new market high....
 
     Woke up this morning dreaming of an Ohio far below me... An Ohio with a huge mousetrap across its landscape, and a high pressure system caught in its just-sprung bar.
     Looking out my window now, it seems less a dream than a fact of life which winter weather systems will be having to steer around for months to come....

     The year has become unseasonably dyslexic in its reading of Time.

     The calendar has flushed today's Ritalin.

     And my consciousness is as sharp as a Dali painting recreated in taffy, then thrown into a translucent dryer to tumble slowly, slowly with the sun....

     I don't want to be captain of my fate.
     I don't even want to be first mate
     but a stowaway on a southern zephyr
     forever blowing towards an orange-drenched western sky
     forever chasing the potent last dregs of summer
     never quite touching the dusk....