Susan Sullivan

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Autumn. Trees prepare for long winters.
Leaves fall, golden brown, without a sound, and yet.....?

Nothing, but the whispers of the wind taunting.
I once thought, thought i heard a word or two.
But lashing past these fearful murmers quickly flew.
'Winter's coming! ! ', winter's coming cried they!
and all at once the forest had its say, with mournful song it seemed.

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