September’s song of sun-dried leaves stirred by the wind of wings in search of seed is strengthened by the musty scent of grapes fermenting into wine.
It looks, it sounds, it smells of autumn.
Flash Fiction Fridays
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"I will breakfast from the cupboard where uneaten dreams are kept"
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"I foresee the successful future of a very mediocre society."
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The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology