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September skies
are saying something to me.
Whispers rushing round my ankles, through my hair
Murmuring flurries from the standing dogwood trees

Grey colored days
are speaking through the leaves in the gutter.
Maples dancing slow rag-time, Chestnuts swaying the swing.
Frosty gusts pulling words out of wood smoke,
etching echoes, the voice of my mother.

Horizons articulating
feelings like the concrete
Language barriers inhibiting translation
Communication comes instead
through the roar and hum of street