The poplar leaves are dropping, veined, fluttering, curled, September's golden hearts.
And who would know it, but the woods smell like good soft leather.
A woodpecker stifles a laugh.
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Up the road or down, sometimes further afield, often not for long, we're out most days.
2 comments:
I'm there.
Dropping already?
This is wonderfully sensual. I'm there, too.
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