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As I sit in my favorite spot, I gaze out the dusty to see a very familiar view. Trees in a wide variety of colors and shapes scattered for what seems like forever. Their fall leaves seem to bring a sense of home to the whole scene. The tree canopies rustle from a light breeze, seeming to make the forest alive and moving. The grass is damp from the early morning dew that fell upon each individual blade, it's color is somewhere between brown and green. Animals bustle around, busy with the task of preparing for the approaching winter when the ground is covered in a soft, white blanket.. Colorful flowers that once bloomed in these woods have long since shriveled and joined the Earth again as a chance to fertilize new life. Many will re-appear in the spring, resurrecting beauty that once died when catching word of the nearing cold. I look down at my lap where my novel resides at page 329. I get up soundlessly and cross the rickety old floors to a bookshelf and place the book back from where I retrieved it. I don't feel like reading today; I feel like staring out my old dusty window.
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January 2016
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