Instead, allow me to tell you of the lands of cinnamon earth, dirt as red as fire and as fine as dust, and when we traveled through it the air was filled with the glitter of gold and the smell of the autumn harvest. Although it was in fact early spring, trees were just budding out, the smallest blossoms emboldened against the cold nights, somehow the air filled with the memory of red leaves, bonfires built large, fallen apples, ripened squash. I knew if we were to remain in that red land, the land of golden air, the land of autumn, during early spring, that we would go mad, each of us driven to insanity by the unsynchronous patter of our metabolisms against that of the earth.
Cat's eye / Margaret Atwood
warm warm clear clear skies