Someone watered down the brilliant colors of Autumn.
It happened overnight.
The yellow and crimson trees of yesterday
have put on muted hues of ochre and rust.
Everything is crunchy and sharp.
The sun is distant but bright.
I notice the shadows running long across the road,
like bare thread-work on a loom.
A tangled web of strings stretching to reach everything.
This is the forgotten phase between life and death.
The respite before winter, long winter.
The sun is bright but delivers little warmth.
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