Ever so slowly the colors fade, even the green of suburban lawns.
Of course colors will remain but the residuals will become softer – gentle echoes of autumnal splendor, turning cooler, like the weather.
Trees, unadorned will reveal their inherent traceries against beige blue skies.
I know it is coming – the cold, slippery season.
It will have its own beauty, its own quality of the sacred.
But not yet.
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