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Sepia Circus MAG
Autumn is color.
I know the leaves start burning then-green
shifting into scarlet like papery chameleons, reds and
oranges so bright they glow against the sky, against the rain.
And I know it's beautiful.
But the colors aren't mine. They never were.
Those reds and golds are nothing to me
but spaces.
How I see the autumn?
I see it in wind, breathing up through the cooling earth
murmuring, whisp'ring: we are
necromancers, all
I see it in the muted evening light
that layers shades of gray on faded gray
I see it in littered pumpkin seeds
and the reflections of clouds in raindrops,
In the clear outline of the moon and the
desperate foxes
tripping in figure eights in search of summer
I see it like a circus flecked with sepia.
Because the colors aren't mine. They never will be.
But the autumn will.
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