(rough cut)

Equinox

I can't write anymore.
I keep having ideas, moods; one might even call them inspirations.
The way that winter has such an impending feel to it,
the inevitability of cold ears and chapped lips.

Between.

Before the grayness penetrates everything...
The leaves haven't turned yet, but it's coming,
green to red, orange, brown, dead;
Paul to John, mandolin to piano.
Bells, timpanis.
Some underground current,
surging, rushing, pounding.
It is coming.

2007, in about 20 minutes