south-westerlies synthesize sound with light sunbeams rustle in the wind; cobwebs dissolve to dew shade births luminescence Autumn signals the slow but magnificent death of vegetation for those of us in the farther northern climes; but it also births amazing creativity in so many artists, writers, and poets. For many of us, it is simply the best time of year.  ***  # Excerpt from the Wisp ...* I won’t. Bara broke the rules of her own game. She lifted her hand and reached instead for a copy of the Hideous Strength. It lay a little less mockingly on the same shelf. So there! she retorted to no one but herself. She clasped the book close to her chest and made her way back down the aisle. The Magician’s Nephew stayed snug and untouched on the shelf. Bara settled into a termite-eaten study carrel and turned on its green reading lamp. A mouthful of coffee and the Hideous Strength was opened to a random page. She landed smack in pursuit of an immortal Merlin. The coffee wouldn’t be enough. Dreamy blue eyes battled with the written page of C.S. Lewis. A heavy head took on a will of its own and drifted down into the crook of her arm. It felt good there. She gave in and surrendered to dreams. … A mist rolled in. Bara might have fallen into a deeper, dreamless rest, but the soft whistle of rustling paper filled the air. Books, rusty-brown and red, flew from the shelves and performed a strange aerial ballet. They circled around her. She came to her feet and reached out her dream hand. Her fingers grazed a hard cover and soft pages. The book fluttered to the ground and settled on the stone floor soundlessly. A small breeze flipped pages and lifted locks of her hair. Bara reached out for another book but was interrupted by the sound of someone coming down the stairs and passing close by. She looked but saw no one. The wind picked up then and grew thickly scented, floral. It rustled through the alit books. As each was touched by the sickly-smelling zephyr, it dropped with a heavy thud. Eventually the air was empty, the floor littered with open spines and fluttering sheets. *The entirety of the Wisp is available on Amazon and Kindle  *** # To Brew My Imagination 
wet soil dry leaves gentle sun rays a crisp westerly wind, a melange an earthy scented stock to brew my imagination