Autumn is shuffling around in dusty slippers. Each day is shorter than the one before, as if her eyelids droop, as if she is too tired even to smile much. Summer's bright colors have fallen away, leaving behind only that which has faded and wrinkled.
How, then, is each day so glorious? Harvest is over; a season of rest settles over all, yet with such a sense of satisfaction -- of thanksgiving, even -- that who can see it without smiling?
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