Tuesday, October 15, 2013


"As I pass, my friend the birch nods its head and turns slightly. Its leaves are tinged with just the slightest hint of yellow. I wonder how it will fare - autumn is coming. But the birch is having none of that. It waves its arms in rhythm with the wind. 'You worry too much, it laughs. Wait till you see the song I sing right before winter.'"

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