the lost man chronicles
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the glossy black mirror

Alas, only a few leaves linger in the trees that are all but barren. The gathered rows that line the streets are brown and ready to crackle beneath children’s feet and the air is advertising an early winter. Few streaks of cumulus cloud what is otherwise a great expanse of hazy blue and the evergreens are breathing a bit prouder, standing haughtily out against a landscape of skeletal remains.

Rivers run still and reflect the surviving bushels of red, yellow and orange barely tethered to their branches; the water’s glossy black mirror portends a fall into the underworld of winter; its pane of murkyness patiently awaiting the besetting chill and the first sheath of ice to inaugurate another season, yet another reason for brave critters to hibernate and for timid humans to remain warm inside.

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