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The summer it does fly
Flocks of geese
Fill the sky.
The leaves they turn to gold and red
They fall gently
Winters bed.

The cool crisp mornings
Come later in the day
The twilight creeps towards noon
The eve filled with a soft gloom.

The harvest moon rises
Dark gold close to the horizon
The soft call of the owl
Can be heard in the break of day.
The soft rustle of the squirrel
As he prepares his winter stash

Is the only sound you hear
As you walk a hidden path.

~Ayresta 16/08/1999~