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The space between the spheres thins and the wind creates passageways.

The spirits are outraged; how could they be otherwise?  Their dance tramples

And blows things down, but still cannot help but create beauty.

The leaves–green, red, gold, brown from the drought, that distant memory–

Hang listlessly with the weight of rain and a bit of slush

Hardly even dancing in the wind, but still becoming perhaps

More  extravagantly lovely by the  storm’s grey light.