The sound of footsteps, running through the street. A whirlwind of leaves brushing through the air, a sky littered with clouds, a fresh glove-like surround, from the low sun touching the trees. Bright and spinning, low and demanding. She slows to a walk. The sound she can hear is that of a piano, soft, yet purposeful. For the piano is stoic, serious and yet lends itself to comedic poetry. For this, she is as serious as a tower block and as whimsical as a tree. Free and yet mystified as to what was to come. When summer ends and everything becomes a palette of reds, browns and golds, the future seems to stop abruptly right where the present begins.