The wind whispers softly, a chill in its breath,
As summer slips quietly, meeting its death.
Golden leaves flutter, like flames in the breeze,
Painting the world with the hues of the trees.
Sweaters emerge from the backs of our drawers,
Worn like warm hugs as the cold wind roars.
The skies turn to amber, the daylight grows shy,
As night falls earlier with stars...
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