Outside my door.

The lake shimmers with the sunlight. Although, I am not sure you can call it sunlight, the sun is hiding. The fog settles down into its place like an old man in his hammock, quietly and slowly streching its hands to the corner of my window, tapping its fingers ever so gently and yawning with itself. The leaves on the ground lie discarded. Rejects of a tree who chose to let them go. The wind finds some amusement in them though, picking them up and dancing a swirling waltz or two before letting them fall back to their asphalt beds. Quietness screams loudly this morning.