Nothing is that close as extremities. In October here in the north, where everything prepares to fade and die, nature expresses such voluptuous sorrow that it sometimes sounds more like an ode to
A small fruit of wild rose is close to crack and spray it’s crimson tension kept strict still by the tight leather-like envelope.
An oak-leaf sticks to the front window of the car struggling against indifferent wipers – catching the last chance not to disappear in the vast mosaic of the fall.
And an inscription on the rusty garbage container – “For the snow” – reminds softly what for all these changes are happening...
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