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This is the season of change. A season of abandon and retreat. A season of brilliance and muted tones. When I look out the window, I can see the leaves falling. They look like they’re dancing- pirouette, fuette, grand jete, piquee- floating through the dusty light unencumbered, in a freefall, buoyed by whisps of warm air. Making that jump into the unknown because they know that they must make room for spring, which will come.
Leaves pile up. There are people who come into the darkness of early morning and take them away. We’re left with mushy piles of indistinct brown in the misty dimness of dawn. The drains, once clogged, now flow freely, but the tiny bugs that created those piles, float about in puddles, abandoned, holding onto their musty secrets. If it wasn’t for those tiny creatures, we’d be buried in leaves, year after year. We’d make our…
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