A Tumbler Full Of Rocks

The time was more or less right. We gave up our hopes for burgeoning limbs and set out one-footed into the Westchester lights, the crowd-breath at our back, and t-shirts cut and rearranged as sails. It was summer-autumn, lodged at the top of the turnover point of the day's last second, we teetered, subdividing seconds into halves and halves of halves, until we could no longer resist the fall. It was the quarter of our resurrection and we stumbled forward, the crowd-sighs gliding us forward and forward. The autumn was autumnal, and thus it fulfilled its promise.