In my mind there is a road.

It is covered by a threadbare blanket of dried leaves.

The leaves stir gently in the swollen air,

Tiny eddies of wind nudging them along the path.

Overhead, the sky burns amber.

There is a streak of dark grey slashing through it midway,

And as I watch, the grey wound grows bigger, bleeding into the sky.

Soon it rains, a soft carpet of water covers the road and the leaves on it.

Rain bounces gently off the leaves and the road.

There are halos of bouncing water around every object,

Around the road surface, upon the leaves blanketing it.

And above all, the rain blanketing the leaves.

Blankets upon blankets.