Windsong

A wisp of a whisper is heard in the eaves. A sibilance sighs through the grass on the hill. A harmony joined from the red maple leaves with dusk-tones of music when crickets are still sings softly in tune with this season of change: notes, auburn and tawny in color and sound, now rising, now falling, nostalgic in range, from sky and from earth, sing the season around.

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