The home-returning birds had scored the evening with their chirps. The low-tide waves of the river, whose water was red from lights of the setting sun and the scattered distorted clouds casting its reflection on the moving water, joined with its low but prominent tone. I’ll be back on the first day of autumn…the morn sky will be cloudy…the noon will have a short spell and the eve will be cast here, on the river, who will have its low tide…she had said. He leaves a sigh. Wait for the eleventh first day of autumn now started.
In response to Thursday Photo Prompt