smoke chill bow rise repeat

The smoke from the south has ruined the view of foothills that never offend. I live in their shadow and try to ascend to the mood and thought they foster. Benevolent foothills. It is Halloween and my toes feel a chill. Winter comes like a whisper and I await morning dew on my sill; the condensation a herald of the season. Life is change. Even fixtures change. Erosion breaks, chips, slips. Entropy wins battles, but not wars. And I can sleep every night. My eyes close in the thought of glory so near to my pillow; on it, around it. I turn out the light. Glory is here.