The cold bleeds color from us. Before our eyes the stalks desiccate in submission to the inevitable. Stands of trees seem to sing a final chorus of beauty before being rendered silent by winter. The pavement seems to echo the flat greyness of a late October sky. Motionless and weighted there is no tomorrow of a warm sun but instead the inertia of cold.
Chin up mazzone...the oil truck just came, so you can take off your muffler.
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