witty-remark's Diaryland Diary

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There's a shadow cast on the horizon that haunts the plains it falls on.
It spreads over hillside and mountain top, slowly, like dark fingers stretching out from a clenched fist.
There's whispers in every rustle of the autumn leaves that speak to the trees.
"Fall, fall, fall. Drop, drop, drop."
Let everything descend from every branch; from the arms of the oaks to the roots of the pines.
A calculated release. A methodical dive.

Spirited sheets of gold waltz within the sunshine, and the shadow concedes. Those black fingers will soon have white knuckles as winter proposes a sparkling, icy gem to the gold band of autumn.

And as every season collects its change, I feel rich in staying the same.

If only everything gold could remain.

12:43 a.m. - Saturday, Oct. 02, 2010

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