Walk outside onto the scene,
pre-dawn gray, all is serene,
slivers of a morning bright,
on the pasture do alight.
October, but early snow,
came with night and winds that blow,
flakes strewn from a showerhead,
swirled while I slept in my bed.
But the leaves, they still remain,
looking like a frosted flame,
blazing orange, dusted white,
fringe the meadow in my sight.
Like a painting...
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