Leaf carnage in Catalunya today, with erratic but stern westerly winds forcefully disrobing poplars.

The willow shimmies his long, skinny green arms in quiet anticipation, awaiting effeuillage.

 I sit, coffee in hand, knees hitched beneath the light fabric of my dress, pondering the appeal of swimming pool.

 A golf ball pings off-key nearby. Swear words resound.

 First world problems.