The crunchy fall underbrush,
With the rust colored glare,
Yields only to the meek powder
Descending from the stone cold air.
What footsteps may flop over,
Only Time can know,
But with more powder dropping,
The prints would never show.
When the sky shaker solids
Under the gray sky and harsh air,
The powder shall start to crunch
Like the crumble rust leaves that were there.
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