It is a willow when summer is over, a willow by the river from which no leaf has fallen nor bitten by the sun turned orange or crimson. The leaves cling and grow paler, swing and grow paler over the swirling waters of the river as if loth to let go, they are so cool, so drunk with the swirl of the wind and of the river — oblivious to winter, the last to let go and fall into the water and on the ground.SourceThe script ran 0.004 seconds.
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