Walking home to lunch I become aware that the breeze that is blowing still has the morning's chill. Down south Fall creeps upon us, we usually don't see the fiery displays of reds, yellows and golds that foilage puts on show in the northern states. So to sense the season's chage one has to be more aware, one has to read the signs. Here leaves are dropping in ones and twos, ivy is becoming brown at the edges, the last blooms of the season are on the rose bushes that form the fence of a certain house on the street I walk up and down twice a day.

I took a moment to watch fish, red in color, swimming in circles around the pool in the front yard of the same house. Elsewhere a terracota Buddha, baked clay that is now almost the color of wood, sits under a magnolia tree, in a meditative posture,a smile of bliss on his face. My feet impercetiably stop for a moment to gaze at him. The ground beneath my feet is covered with pine needles and pine cones. A small bird flits from tree to tree. Up ahead beyond the chain link fences of an abandoned gas station hundreds of minatures suns, yellow wild flowers, dance a tango with the big sun sailing by in the blue noon day sky.

And I move away in ever widening circles of stillness, travelling from the inner shell to the outer bodies of a Russian doll set, self similar dolls contained within each bigger body.