Sunday Mornin' Comin' Down

The leaves blew violently in the air like spooked birds ready to attack as we made our way to the Farrell-Manitsas farm in Mt. Morris, NY, where pumpkins grow and the virgin mary never sleeps. At the stroke of five, the dominant luminary made a hasty retreat, as though it suddenly remembered that winter was almost upon us and it wasn't supposed to show it's face anymore. So we drove home in premature darkness and solomon called every person he knew. We had spent the previous evening, Saturday night, at a kind friend's home who was throwing a birthday party for her cat. A couple of folks brought over their fat felines and it was a cat's night in. Catnip was present and the birthday boy got ripped.
I feel exhausted and slightly more somber than I'd like. It's hard to settle in to a Sunday these days. Johnny said it best.
"On a Sunday morning sidewalk,
I'm wishing, Lord, that I was stoned.
'Cause there's something in a Sunday
That makes a body feel alone.
And there's nothing short a' dying
That's half as lonesome as the sound
Of the sleeping city sidewalk
And Sunday morning coming down."