None

The crunch of leaves bind,
forming a marching band clamouring,
trying to take center stage regardless
of their inability to play. Breezes point
to the east, and west, north and south,
indecisive enough to seem busy.
Oaks gently bow, ready for rest,
removing themselves from the stage,
striking the cloak, exhausted.
Skies stretching out with brush in hand,
accidentally stroking color streams
without proper direction.
Autumn is boundless.

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