I heard a song today about leaving
and a friend read a poem about the road
where the wind insistently repeats
gusts of approval to the grey clouds.
It’s 50 * but it looks like snow.
The leaves are still green and
refuse to submit, so the wind
claims the dead branches,
the birds nests, and the rummage sale signs.
It isn’t even noon
I’m ready for bed.
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