Equinox

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Halloween is coming—
I feel it in the air—
pumpkins tumbling,
dry leaves crunching,
apples everywhere.
Windy days,
frigid nights
shadows on the bog—
soon the sky
will fold the sun
into a wintry fog.
Stalks of corn
without their cobs—
just rows and rows of straw—
pumpkins tumbling
dry leaves crunching—
tell me it is fall.

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