A Trans-Morning Tease

A lone stoic blackbird sat on a lamp post squawking away; his eerie crowing piercing the graveyard silence. The sleepy yawning sun pulled himself up and over the shading horizon; reflecting a golden glow. The quiet air was as still as an aged autumn tree—standing all alone—naked, and as shameless as was Joan of Arc, herself. Springtime has long passed on and autumn/fall has begun to wane; however, the morning sun slowly prepares himself to resist the coming tease of winter.