The scene in front of her was almost perfect.
The sun was setting with gold and pink streaks,
The Robins were singing with glee as they swooped low into the treeline,
Light was shining down onto my golden hair with the warm breeze waving to the sun,
As if to say goodbye.
It was almost perfect,
The frost that would fall next morning would only last for an hour or two,
But soon it would stay until the grass was covered in a soft, cold blanket.
The Maples would start to turn,
Leaving the trees bare and alone.
The occasional Weeping Willow would have a friend or two,
Burrowed into the trunks of trees to fall into a deep slumber.
Robins would leave,
To go somewhere else where they could sing and swoop low into a treeline,
Warm breezes would soon be hidden by the frigid winds of winter,
blowing my hair waving to the white puffy clouds of snow,
As if to say hello.
The scene in front of her was almost perfect,