limdo

The seasons form a marriage of opposites. Two exalted lights meet, both searching a sky devoid of allegiance. It reads like a prelude to creation. - Not cumulus, not stratus or cirrus: instead the mists lie on gravel-throated greens, entirely indistinct. We pass with caution through divine riot, knowing very little except of the carrion: the treetops who snatch celestial glory, gilt earth with futile pride. They hope for a metamorphisis of old habits but instead find fortunes are fleeting- goblin gold, lifting with the skies as they fill with hoarse gloom. We gathered some, plucked them from the air for souveniers. Counted