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Leaves Fall Into the River
The house has gone brittle,
wind shakes the glass,
leaves push against the panes;
faces pressing fast.
Bobby sniffs the air,
barking crazily.
The silence startles.
At seven, thankfully,
the newshour blares.
The miners
no longer trapped
underground in Chile while
new terrorists threaten,
democrats fear
loss of seats
as election nears.
At eight p.m.,
the air is cold.
Leaves fall
into the river.
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