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Autumn has a Trumpet

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They sung such a bosom based beat
that it was hard to believe it was
the colors belting,
and not a beatnik in a jazzy ballroom.
Falling, twirling, spinning-
A vortex alive,
a nature-born jive,
a season of movement made art.
And as leaves filled the air as a last hoorah,
escaping the grabby hands of bark branches
it too was hard to believe
that the earthen performers were not
rebels to a conformed society.
They were free in the beat,
dancers not leaves,
For fall is the same thing as swing dancing.




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