Late summer, hot and dry, everything gone to seed and yellow leaves.
Red maples and brown bracken.
There's a knocking raven in the sycamore.
Time flies like an arrow but it's still.
Still painting, still messing around the river, still hanging around the place.
MandRand band is still playing matinees and nightly, little bit of rock, little bit of roll
and lots of still sunshine.
