Rising above brume, I sail on a cirrus carpet through far-flung cerulean; sun bussed. Hirundo rusticas flock by with a flash of russet throats. The eye of heaven flutters, stippling evening; pomegranate across white chiffon curtains. Parachuting earthward with sycamore, swirling towards appliquéd leafage, I crash land in the mist slumped on my chaise lounge by the window. Twilight peers through the panes. Drawing the drapes across his sneer I switch the light on seasonal despair. He lingers outside, waiting for the scarab beetle to roll back the sun.