Autumn wind is a mischievous wind. It blows the leaves against my door. I sweep them, and next time I look, those leaves are there once more. It rearranges chairs on decks and scratches at my windows. Is someone there or is it a game that happens when the wind blows?
Sometimes the wind blows up a rain that sings a soothing song, a gentle, lovely lullaby that lasts the whole night long. No one can guess from whence it comes or even where it’s going, and what the wind decides to do is pretty much past knowing.
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