By nightfall the first embers glow like tips of cigarettes. The wind settles into a smooth rhythm, puffing the autumn leaves. Sweetness comes fully, with oils and tart vinaigrettes.
Life lingers like a cat on dry grass.
Wet sieves Of moonlight drench the street silver. Wears its halo at a tilt. The night air smells of garlic. Sounds Of wooden guitars fade in and out in waves. The night Is meant for touching.