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I see the poplars turning. The green seeping into yellow sickly. Or is it gold, celebrating the closing of a season scorched?
My eyes burn white and red and frozen on the leaves twisting high up where the sun shines coldly. And the poplar leaves refusing yet to let go. Though they shudder, like it might rain, and shake like the peacocks tail: but it's ravens that cry in the hills besides. Or do they laugh, sickly? ...
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