Why hello, stranger.

Push open the gate—it is not even bolted. Even so you can only see the leaves-strewn path from here, perhaps a flash of red tile amidst the ever-moving forest that arcs out and ripples away, an arcade of sunlight-soaked green, leaves and branches threading thin and spidery and dark-gold underfoot.

It is the end of summer. It is the end of the day also. Cicadas chirp you up the way to the house, the wind a little cool on your fingertips, the sky overhead like moulted gold. (If you let your eyes slide half-shut, maybe you will think you can hear the tall, green rustling of trees, slow and steady, like waves at sea tiding to shore.

The house is flat and wide at its base, like a bird about to take flight, wings opened and head lifted to trill. It is a little old, and come the evening you know the lamps will buzz softly on, warm and snug like a beacon in the tiding dark and the belated, fluttering fireflies.

The door will be open, and, if you come in, you will most likely find me in one of the rooms, possibly reading, possibly writing, possibly napping also. If I am, do not make me up just yet. Sit down. Take your time. Dusk is streaming in on the parquet. This was a beautiful day, and it is drawing to a magnificent close.

I have hot tea, and rhubarb crumble, and a thousand words on paper. Will you stay for a little while?

Personal LiveJournal is here.

And fic journal, also on lj, here.