Old gold song of the almost finished year
May Sarton's autumn & reading recommendations for the waning days of October

The other morning I stood by the window and watched as the wind stripped the leaves from the oak tree. They weren’t falling, I thought, and no two leaves departed in the same manner. Some spun downward in a pirouette—with the grace of a ballerina or figure skater—and others rode on the wind as though they were caught in a wave at sea. Surfers and ghosts. Some hurried, others
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