I've got a touch of the logorrhea.

Sunlight on bare dirt,
early morning nip of autumn on the breeze;

Sparks leap in fiery efflorescence from the hair-fine space between cool aluminum oxide and luke warm steel,
dancing off corrugated walls,
cascading down a well worn leather apron,
nesting in gobbets of mink oil and leather laces,
lighting the small world in one single eleemosynary act,
assimilated by the ubiquitous grime.