frost

frost creeps up on the unsuspecting, tired grassblades of the autumn, and looks at them at a different angle.

frost thinks of the pale greens and greys, and browns of the autumn in a new way.

not so much of the absorption of the light and energy, as the reflecting and giving it back.

not so much of the taking, as to rejecting.

not of darkness, but of light.

frost takes out his artist’s kit and slowly, laboriously encrusts each blade of grass, each fallen leaf with ornaments befitting their moisture.

then he raises his head, sniffs at the morning wind, and is gone.

leaving the shining to the sun.

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