Early One October Morning

The smell of humidor Charmed the old house and Frightened me as I ascended the Narrow stairwell that gentle October morning. The song of autumn was playing Low, and with astute grace. Silent, the royal smell wafted between Cuba And Denmark, Across fat rank grass of fecund roots. I snuffled through fogs of earliness, Webbed by clamping cold. Cigars without smoke took over from the Humidor and hugged my lungs.