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The Irishman once wrote
About leaves falling one by one
Calling the season a fool
The damp gloom of autumn.
In the piazza below, his distant cousin
Rucksack on his back
Cushioned mufflers around his ears,
Carrying an extended nozzle, noisy motor
Collecting leaves in the bag, momentarily pausing
Before resuming with flourish.
Withered leaves snap and fall
Nature’s unerring transition
As autumn segues into winter.
The lyricist writes in earnest,
The council worker collects with enthusiasm
Wrapped up in yellow jacket
Sucking the leaves down
A dark narrow tunnel.
A microcosm of a seasonal ritual
Capturing a moment in nature’s shifting cycle,
There he goes again
Head down, utterly singular
A maestro with his own imprint.
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