It's bright and breezy today, and acorns rain to the ground.
Some show up still dressed in their jaunty hats, but the large white oak acorns,
gentlemen that they are, usually doff their caps before they arrive.
Like candy corn, they decorate the ground with their warm autumn hues.
The marks ringing their bare heads...
match marks on the inside of the caps,
as if they had been held together by tiny stitches.
The fruit of the oak tree, the culmination?
Or the beginning?
