Golden brown crisp scales flutter down like dying birdies. They land like pancakes on the sodden fungal ground. Miles blows a riff on a muted horn while Coltrane breathes reedy in the obscured haze of afternoon. Solitary homuculiod rain dancers wrestle with winged batbrellas in the glooming. They brave the tumble down in wind snaggers, pressed out onto the streets slick with splish splash by pressing business. It’s time for soup and firesides, drawn curtains and sodium nights. The world seems weary – she is marching half time. Hibernation is on us; the season of sleep stretches out its hand to darken the Earth.