It`s autumn now. The days are shorter and the nights are cool. It's time for another short-short story prompted by the changing seasons.

Please put this little tale into the context of your heart. Adopt it, given it a home, file it among your own memories and make it your own.

Andrew, thank you again for so much help, for good advice, for proofing and editing and, most of all, for making me look so much better than I am.

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Golden light, colored by the leaves which filter it, light which has traveled across galaxies to be stopped cold by the beauty of your naked form.

It's far too cool for this, for lying naked under trees, beneath an infinity of sky.

But in your arms, the chill is gone.

Your lips are hot and coaxing me to risk the chill and risk the fire alike. We lie together, imprisoned in our mutual embrace, between the cold abyss and cozy warmth of home.

Do you want the baguette with our stew? Do you want a nebula for our bed?

The crunch of leaves is more erotic than the sound of birds when it's our bodies which can play the tune. The crushing tunes are interspersed with moans.

Hot stew's an autumn fare, an autumnal delight. Simmer the potatoes with the carrots and stir in mushrooms at the end.

You stir my soul and make me think of pine. You stir my heart and leave me with a taste of all existence on my gaping lips.

The warmth is pressed between us, were our bodies meet. But autumn air is moving on my back.

When did we consider making love in such a place?

Was it considered? Not considered long. It was a pulsing in the veins, the beating of our syncopated hearts and reason played no part at all.