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The colors faded, and the light fell, on the date of the last warmth on the thirty first. The trees wilted, and the birds flew from them- carrying the sun upon their wings. The clouds gathered closer, and grew grey from the reminiscence of the summer's spoils. The nights were more quiet then. Shadows grew longer. And the faces of wise men fell a little lower, just as did the horizon behind the country hills.
But before the last bird flew, and the last color faded; before remains became the wind, and the darkness grew darker, a sound came from traveling feet and lost eyes. A new color bled through the trees and a new song dripped from the leaves. And beyond the country hills, it was said by wise men, to be Brittsommar. Read mo...