...an unusual thing in the frosty early
breeze.
Small groups of crisp brown sycamore leaves were swirling on
the ground. One or two leaves would swerve away from their spiraling
group to join the communal gestures of another group. Two or three
groups, in turning and leaning activity, always sending off drunken emissaries
or secret agents to blend into other moving enclaves.
The sense of animation, sentience, dance was marked and eerie. As if some living tribal spirit had
infected these dead skittering forms.
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