The book was yellow. I put it down
because I was finished. It was
February. The grass was yellow
as a stain. I did not know
my dog was yellow, but when
she entered the yellow grass,
she could not be seen. I could not
see the frogs there either. They sang
from the grass, and their song
was strained. It was February, as I said,
and I believed the frogs to have been
confused as I believed everything
to have been confusing. The sun was not yellow
but gray, lost in its haze. Everywhere
beech trees gripped fast their long dead leaves.
They were color of parchment
from which every writing had been drained.