Leaves turn amber in Autumn, and slip from their maple houses.
An old bicycle, its paint withered long ago, becomes rusted and bent.
The light in the obsidian night sings to the sea, and moves it in and out.
Streams trickle down mountains, persisting, until the stream is a raging river
and the mountain a gaping canyon.
The clock ticks, the world turns, nothing remains as it was.
Who are we to be exempt?