Autumn springtime, crisp dewy longshards of morning roselight garden strafe while cool moonface slides down the blue westdome. Arms goosefleshed bicycle ride into the purple-blinding sun, I say isn't it a great day to Green Pasture peacocks straying across Live Oak for breakfast peckings. Warm human interminglings trickle through the day, a sense that the loose-limbed life is ours. We have a secret betweenst us, we know the special handshake. Warmth colours the afternoon deep palette, spare no hue, after all that sere summer drab drubbed our eyes. Whistlesnapped niggun tune to welcome the down arc, then creekside dapple sunset numbmaking trickle, and who is Gus Fruh anyway? I sure do love his pool. A stranger wonders aloud isn't it amazing and I wonder what part she means.