The trees are past their peak -
The season's drawing nearer
as our mountain creek
flows into a mirror.
A chill is in the air -
the scent of wood exposes
our former memories bare
to at last depose us
as bears begin to slumber -
the wind, no longer mild,
blows over stacks of lumber
upon the earthen wild.
The snowflakes are before us
Winter, now our host,
courts carolers in chorus
of songs we love the most.
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