Trees

In dim early light, the green begins to wither.
A few pour souls have shrunk to brown,
And they greet the breeze with tiny shivers.

They are still for a moment.

Ah! Our whirring purring rumble grumble seizes on such hesitation,
And to this morning chorus we return with brash entitlement.
The leaves don’t mind. They rustle on with quiet patience.

Until it is their turn to fall.

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