It’s between seasons after Indian Summer and before white flakes fall from the sky, where we find sixty degrees and grass withering into a putrid green as oozing tree sap begins to harden. Shrills of laughter pedal by me tossing limbs in the air as their hair dances behind them. The distant sound of tunk, tunk, tunk, swish reins us in from the road, as the sun dips beyond the tree line.
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