The leaf falls, noiselessly like in the painting that beat Seurat's. The boulder fell, a hundred years before my birth with a deafening crash. The angry flames at the campfire, doused with propane, leapt upward in the shape of a maple leaf and fell crackling into the sky. A tree fell, perhaps with a thud, forming a bridge across troubled waters.
Winter crept silently into the tent at night and three dare-devil (albeit cold) babies slept in the colour factory, as a red fox watched on.
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