Fall is a sight for sore southern California eyes. A step out of doors brings the breeze through jeans and a sweatshirt-- a thin blanket of dull chill heightening with repsect to the ebbing winds. Dust rolls in ghostly waves, the tide of a dry, earthy ocean. Leaves once brown and lifeless scurry about like witless rats, trading in the inane life of a pile in the lawn for midnight races. Trees, now bearing their true, skeletal selves, give the chaotic winds an auditory outlet. No moon gives light to the far off congress of the trees, conspiritorialy huddled on the edges of vision. Stars strewn across an obsidian sky are mysterious and withdrawn.
The earth seems restless, a sick dog waiting for its time to come, death by the slow, sharp knife of winter. The wind, taking over, soon will hold its reign, unencumbered. Before the winter comes, Fall, the last breath of another dying summer, lashes the skin of passers by with the winds thin whips as if to ensure winter's opression will be complete. The trees and sky will wait with longing for the sun to thaw the world again and the flowers to push their fragrant heads to the surface to reach it.
Some, though, see the terrorizing winds are magnificent in their power. They see the hazy inarticulate circles that the dusty air paints around each street light. The uncontained joy of the autumn leaves beckons.
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