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Falling

The acorns have stopped bombing the ground and humidity clings around trees like plastic wrap. No breeze-silent-but the dog’s ears flap to the speed of his gallop as he trolls the woods. A line of spiders and ants cross my path hurridly; their days numbered and a piliated wood pecker cuts the sky with a piercing cry. I see my footprints from the day before- both walking and walking back with my stick, swiping webs from the trees. A new shelter to gun down deer for sport has been constructed in the clearing. The dry river is chafed and aching;…