Auntunno.

Out on the lake

which slips by

a deep blue full of questions beneath my canoe,

I watch the hills.

You can only watch something that moves.

You look at something stationary.

But the hills move,  though imperceptibly

(in a manner that is so slight, gradual or subtle so as not to be perceived).

They move, this I know, because they are green

yet there is a suspicion, a premonition

of colour

that hangs above them, waiting to settle over them.

non è ancora autunno, it says, hovering there.

But almost.

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