It was almost fall and the trees were bare.
The sky was still blue and the grass still green.
The house was enjoying the cold, crisp air.
The land was bustling with people, but clean.
The night was no different, cold but safe.
The wind blew in the night, visiting them;
It harmed no one but left the neighbors chafed.
It spent the nights alone with its own hum.
Then suddenly, you shift your perspective,
To the left you see what is left of me.
The cries to see me gone are rejective;
I no longer strike joy when people see.
The grass is brown and tainted by the oil,
They try to clean me up but they will toil.