Sam Sevlon


That September was one of many months, but the leaves, turning yellow and brown and golden on the trees and falling to be wind-driven on the pavements and swirled in the air, helped to urge me onwards. Waiting for something to happen, you never really know what it is, or what it will be. But one day birds in a tree chirp lustily and there you have it. Or a ray of forgotten sunshine falls across the desk in the office where you work. Many days I saw them burning the brown leaves in the park. Raking them together in heaps and setting them on fire, and the smoke straight as a rod. The old man leaned against the rake and smoked a cigarette and watched the leaves burning. Old men always do that, when they burn leaves in autumn.



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