A Few Brushstrokes Less

I come from a place with fields of trees
And stumps of stone crowded by mountain laurel,
Where on a gray day, cold rain patters on the leaves
Which lay like so many odd fingered hands,
Brittle and brown.

In between showers there is no silence
As soft breaths of a breeze toss every leaf
Lost on the ground.

The rustling muffles noise from the town,
But not the flirting chirps as each little bird
Punctuates the air with flittering flight
And irrepressible sound.

Grays and brown and leathery green
And a few maple leaves of emergency red and yellow
Swirl ‘round as I blend into an outcrop of rock
By drifts of short summers and tall evergreens
In khaki jacket and hat, huddled under barely rain
As if painted into the scene from some palette,
Only a few brush strokes less to never be here.

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