The weekend’s storm tore the remaining leaves from the trees: in great clouds fluttering like blackbirds taking wing, were the world turned upside-down. Lonely survivors cling to their branches while the bodies of their brothers, summer’s corpses, lay strewn on my windshield. I should put dimes on their eyes to mark the season, but they have none, and there are too many. The wipers flash, tick-tick, and it is winter.

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