without "to be"
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.
The trees loose their leaves, turn brown, crumple, falling off. I start missing the blue skies of summer, now replaced with crisp orangey sunsets. The trees resemble a dying jungle, once tamed and now turned haywire.
In this cycle the leaves eventually return again; they sprout up a year later combining life and death so close together only winter separates the two. Winter: the transition; the dead space.
Before, fall jumps out, the most colorful jubilee, a perfect celebration connecting everything.
We rake the leaves (little devils), throwing them into jumbled piles ready for burning- the last initiation. Engulfed in fire the leaves burst, exploding acorns, only ashes left.
The remains sink into the ground creating new life. The trees stand still- scarecrows for winter. Fall ceased. The skies look bluish yellow when the sun sets; clouds surround the bright circles. No green life exists.
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