The air is brilliant. Not the soft, shy brilliance of a new Spring day, nor yet the deep sultry brilliance of a deep Summer afternoon. It is, instead, a fragile light. Sharp.
It's an in-between breath, and there is a strange beauty to it, for those who want to see.
There is a sense of impatience in the air, of greed. It is not yet time, but the delicate lacy fingers do not wait. They brush against the branches and leaves, trying to overwhelm a Season that hasn't had the opportunity to venture a voice, much less bow out gracefully.
They dance together; uneven, unequal, but with an unearthly grace nevertheless.