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Changing of the GuardsSummer is about over and here comes Autumn, the soft petals of the rose has begun to fall. The fledgling birds are trying to fly like their mothers taught them all. The cool northern wind makes its first call, the red, orange and persimmon yellow leaves slowly tumble from their majestic heights so tall. The honey bee hurriedly zooms from fading flower to flower in search of the last nectar to be yielded . A single crow squawks loudly, signaling its mates to a treasure trove of left over grain in the recently harvested field. There’s a smell of wood smoke in the brisk air, and bacon frying at the farmer’s house over there. In the village, preparations are being made for the coming Autumn fair, and bright yellow pumpkins are displayed everywhere. The little gray squirrel noisily chatters as it hurriedly gathers its winter cache. The sound of the Northern geese flying high towards the Southern skies, makes me sad and brings a tear to my aging eyes. The changing of the seasonal guards is taking place and soon Autumn will surrender to old man winter with his cold, snowy white face. Jackie R. kays Copyright…2004 Vote for this poem
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