Semi-Daily Scribbles

Memories made in the month of August are filed away for a winter's day. Heat pricking the backs of my legs will be sorely missed when the chill wind attempts to carve its mark in my flesh. Animals will have gone to ground, or curled up next to a fireplace blaze. All of them dreaming of easy abundance. If provisions have not been squirreled away by the time darkness owns the hours, worshippers of the sun will wither and return to the soil, never again to build up a store of August memories.