A bird song carried on still air.
A shaft of light catching dancing motes of dust.
A sunset crimson thrust upon the dusk.
A waft of hyacinth and earthy earth.
A chestnut crackles on the fire.
A fresh baked bread’s aromas spread.
A hushed expectation of nothing new.
A waiting for the homecoming, dinners due.
A promise of a welcome unrestrained.
Coming in from the garden shed
little need be said.
But magic is always present where its always fed.
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