Silken mist outside the window

This cold, rainy mid-fall evening has put me in a mood of quiet contemplation. As I sip the earthy sweetness of a couple of fingers of The Famous Grouse with the lilting tones of a cedar flute on the stereo, Molson and Cooper asleep at my feet, I am appreciating the solitude of this Saturday evening. Simple pleasures are best -- the brilliant patchwork of an autumnal hillside's trees, the relaxing patter of raindrops landing on a deep bed of fallen leaves, a simple song that fits a simple mood ...

I believe in fires at midnight, when the dogs have all been fed.
A golden toddy on the mantle; a broken gun beneath the bed.
Silken mist outside the window -
Frogs and newts slip in the dark.
Too much hurry ruins a body:
I'll sit easy; fan the spark.

Kindled by the dying embers, of another working day.
Go upstairs: take off your make-up -
Fold your clothes neatly away.
Me, I'll sit and write this love song
As I all too seldom do -
Build a little fire this midnight.
It's good to be back home with you.

Kindled by the dying embers, of another working day.
Go upstairs: take off your make-up -
Fold your clothes neatly away.
Me, I'll sit and write this love song
As I all too seldom do -
Build a little fire this midnight.
It's good to be back home with you.

-- Fires at Midnight,lyric by Ian Anderson