his yard, steadily
raking.
but it's not raking that
he's doing.
he's somewhere else,
the leaves
are just part of it,
having fallen
from the trees.
the rake in his hands is
more than wood.
it's something
beyond his understanding.
he's trying to get
somewhere,
or forget
something. someone?
more leaves will come,
he tells himself.
this is not the end
of things.
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