A
ugust was almost over. The first cool touch of autumn moved slowly through the town and there was a softening and the first gradual burning fever of color in every tree, a faint flush and coloring in the hills, and the color of lions in the wheat field. Now the pattern of days was familiar and repeated like a penman beautifully inscribing again and again, in practice, a series of
l's and
w's and
m's, day after day the line repeated in delicate rills.
Dandelion Wine, Ray Bradbury
No comments:
Post a Comment