On the ridge above Skelp Road bears binge on blackberries and apples, even grapes, knocking down the Petersens’ arbor to satisfy the sweet hunger that consumes them. Just like us they know the day must come when the heart slows, when to take one more step would mean the end of things as they should be. Sleep is a drug; dreams its succor. How better to drift toward another world but with leaves falling, their warmth draping us, our stomachs full and fat with summer?
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