A jug and an unripe mango hanging out together on the window sill.
My book shelf under plastic while the room is being painted. Plastic, like fog, renders the mundane mysterious.
The painter Berch, who decorates the local diners, has outshone himself this time.
Of course he doesn't use black -- that's merely the interior of the diner.
Makes me feel warm and fuzzy about fall.
On 22nd Street, the very clean stump of what was a tall tree - - though riddled with rot.
Yesterday evening --the Harvest moon was suitably yellow --which doesn't show up here.
