Raking up the first piles of fallen leaves,
The disturbed earth smells musky medicinal.
Orangish browns arranged chaotically.
Some stubborn leaves are pierced by rake tines and remain regardless of how hard they are shaken.
Crisper air condescends,
And foretells of winter bleak on the many mornings ahead.
Gathering the leaves into a Town Hall Meeting,
Where they might turn nostalgic for Summer swaying branches.
Then up a yard-waste receptacle.
Quite a spectacle.
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And just like that she built the Queendom she always wanted.
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