The dry, brown leaves of the sycamore rustle in the autumn breeze. They burn with the memory of summer's hot white sun. Then they fall and float downstream on the slowly flowing creek.
The dry, brown leaves of the sycamore
rustle
in the autumn breeze.
They burn with the memory
of summer's hot white sun.
Then they fall
and float
downstream
on the slowly flowing creek.
© 2001-2017 Judi Moreillon